


No Line on the Horizon

by glennjaminhow



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Blood, Boys Kissing, Canon Related, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Codependency, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insomnia, M/M, Making Out, Mental Health Issues, Minor Injuries, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Overstimulation, Panic Attacks, Rape, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trips, Self-Harm, Sleep Deprivation, Sleeping Together, Sleepovers, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 04:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15502815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: Dennis has been in love with Mac since the moment he first met him; let's explore that.





	1. Do You Feel Loved?

**Author's Note:**

> Warning - This chapter contains sexual abuse and rape. Please do not read if this triggers you. 
> 
> Mac and Charlie will join the story soon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You got my head filled with songs. You got my shoelaces undone. Take my shirt; go on, take it off me. You can tear it up if you can tie me down." - Do You Feel Loved | U2

**Fall 1990**

Dennis Reynolds is a perfect specimen.

He’s basically a God, but don’t tell his sister that; she just rolls her eyes any time Dennis’ narcissism and vanity slips past his gorgeous lips and into the open air. Mom says that Dee’s jealous, and Dennis wholeheartedly believes it. Dennis has amazingly quaffed hair. Dennis has baby blue eyes that chicks can’t help but fawn over. Dennis has a huge dick for pleasuring the ladies, tons of money, a mansion, and a fantastic body.

The air is just so lucky to have him.

No. The world, the universe, the galaxy, is lucky to have him.

But his boxers and jeans are discarded on the library floor, and Ms. Klinsky is running her hand through his hair. His amazing hair. God, he’s so fucking great at everything he does. He even has older, but still attractive, women tripping over themselves to be with him. He tries to smile when Ms. Klinsky kisses him again, tries to ignore the shivers wracking his flawless body.

He wanted this, he reminds himself.

Dennis wanted this. Wants this.

He turned fourteen five days ago, but who cares? Fuck it. He can do what he wants. He can do who he wants, and this just proves it.

The floor is cold, and Ms. Klinsky’s arm is wrapped around his slender waist like she owns him. His hard on has long since dissipated, and he came, so he guesses he liked it? What is he saying? Of course he liked it. But his brain feels foggy and cloudy, and every fiber of is being is somehow on fire and freezing at the exact same time.

He wanted this. He wanted this. He wanted this.

Dennis is a perfect specimen. He loves rules and logic and reasoning and being the best. He’s clearly the best at banging because what other fourteen year old dude can say he shacked up with a teacher? No one, that’s who. He’s just so great at being him. He’s methodical and knows exactly how to get what he wants, like this, and isn’t afraid of anything.

But there’s this weird burning vibration spasming throughout his core, lighting him up like a Christmas tree. His shoulder aches. His head might explode. He kinda has to puke. But Ms. Klinsky is here and there and everywhere, and he...

No. No second-guessing. No overthinking. Just move past it.

Move past it.

“You’re a lucky boy, Dennis,” Ms. Klinsky says as she buttons up her blouse. She’s towering over him now. His heart thumps wildly in his chest. He pretends he doesn’t feel her kiss his neck, his cheek, his lips, as she finishes dressing herself. “Such a lucky boy.”

Eventually, Ms. Klinsky leaves, but not without impatiently, hastily, thrusting their hips together once more. She’s back to wearing a skirt, so Dennis doesn’t understand why this is necessary because she isn’t naked, but he is, so maybe it makes sense? He doesn’t know. She whispers that she’ll see him tomorrow, that he can come visit her before school starts in the morning, and Dennis is so close to throwing up that he wordlessly nods.

He’s on the floor in the periodical section, shaking as he buttons his shirt and zips up his jeans. He doesn’t have the energy to move. Tears drip on to the fabric of his pants. He tries really hard to focus and steady his breathing in the silence of the school at 5:15 PM on a Thursday. Dennis doesn’t get it. It was amazing. He lost his virginity. He should be laughing and smiling and strutting his stuff, bragging to anyone and everyone that he banged a teacher.

It’s almost six by the time he stands. His legs almost give out. He clutches on to the shelves with white knuckles and red cheeks. Dennis fixes his hair perfectly, straightening his flannel and wiping his face until he’s normal again. No one’s in the hallway except the janitor, who frowns the moment they make awkward eye contact. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He practically sprints outside, the crisp fall air soaking into his skin and filling his lungs with... something.

He just wants to go home.

Dennis doesn’t call for a ride. His parents probably aren’t home, but they’re wasted or high if they are. Someone, he can’t remember their name, picks him and Dee up from school everyday, but he thinks their shift is over. He’s rich as shit, so he knows he doesn’t have to pull strings for anything, especially something as simple as a ride home, but he walks anyway.

He doesn’t know what time it is when he unlocks the front door, hands trembling and fingers barely able to grasp the keys. He exhales, mentally preparing himself for screaming parents or an annoying as fuck sister, and kicks off his shoes in the foyer. He winces as the sounds of breaking glass and cursing fill up the thick, tension-riddled air. Quiet. He wants quiet. He wants to shower and brush his teeth and then crawl into bed. He doesn’t feel like doing anything else.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dee shrieks from the top of the stairs. “Mom and Dad are pissed.”

He shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk.

“Dennis, is that you?”

His eyes widen, and Dee runs back to her room. Fucking Dee. Fuck her. He scrubs a hand over his face and blinks really hard to stop the stupid fucking tears from falling. He’s just so tired. He doesn’t want to see his mom. He doesn’t want to listen to his dad ramble on for hundreds of years about boring, moronic, unnecessary shit.

He clears his throat and pads into the kitchen carefully, avoiding the shattered glass that reminds him of his body right now. “Yeah. It’s me.”

Mom instantly walks over to him. He never knows what he’s going to get with her. Sometimes, she sulks into his room really late at night, lazily wrapping herself around him and whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Sometimes, she’s so drunk; her fingers are cold against his waist. He tries to tell her no every time, but she shushes him and promises to buy him new clothes or video games or books. Sometimes, she tells him how handsome and special he is.

There’s a sharp sting across his left cheek. He flinches, but that’s it.

“You better have a good reason for scarin’ your mother like that,” Dad says. He’s downing another Rum and Coke.

Dennis nods. “I was working on a history project. I should’ve called. I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you should’ve called. Since you seem to think you’re so Goddamn grown up, you get the privilege of going to bed without dinner.” Dennis sighs and is so thankful it isn’t worse than that. “For two weeks. Maybe longer. Fuck, who knows?”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Frank. Make it three.”

His knees quiver. He pinches his arm harshly. He bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. This is hardly a punishment, but Dennis isn’t going to make it worse.

“Yes, sir,” he says clearly, emotionlessly, just the way Dad likes it.

“Go to your room,” Mom orders, and Dennis does so wordlessly, wincing when the violent screaming starts once more.

Jesus Christ. He needs to calm down. Calm down. His heart pulses so rapidly he’s sure he’s about to collapse.

He’s halfway to his room when he hears Dee’s voice. “What’s the punishment this time?”

Dennis almost starts crying right then and there. He feels dirty. Disgusting. Used.

“T-Three weeks without dinner,” Dennis tells her. “Could’ve been worse.”

“You’re lucky Dad didn’t wail on you tonight. He’s in a mood. I think it may be because –”

Dennis shakes his head. “No offense, Dee, but please shut the fuck up.”

“Glad to see you’re still as fucking bipolar as ever. Fuck you, and goodnight.”

He waves her off and dashes into his bedroom as quickly as humanly possible. He locks the door behind him, sinking down against it and pulling his knees to his chest. The moment he hides his face in his jeans, he bursts into tears. It isn’t pretty, and he’s sure it isn’t him – The Dennis Reynolds. No, it has to be some version of him in other world or life or dimension or something because he doesn’t cry. He hates crying. He hates how puffy it makes his face, how red and droopy his eyes get, how generally unattractive it makes him appear to the world.

Dennis has to be perfect.

It’s just the rules.

Dennis isn’t even actually there when he slashes up his forearms with the razor he stole from Dad’s drawer. He isn’t even actually there when the blood washes down the drain. He isn’t even actually there when he neglects bandaging the wounds in favor of watching them bleed even more as he squeezes his skin hard. He isn’t there. It isn’t him. This does not, by any means, represent him. This isn’t Dennis Reynolds. This isn’t Dennis Reynolds.

It’s past midnight when he leaves the bathroom. The blood vessels in his eyes have burst from crying and puking. His hair is fucking ugly and horrible. His face is pale and gross. He throws on a hoodie and plaid pajama pants, turning off the lights and burrowing under his comforter. Dennis holds on to Mr. Tibbs, his plush elephant, tightly. It’s fucking stupid. He’s fourteen and shouldn’t need a stuffed animal, but he really doesn’t feel well, and Mr. Tibbs is the only thing in this horrible fucking universe that can manage to make him not so empty and useless.

Dennis is nearly asleep when Mom stumbles in and invites herself into his bed. He tries to scoot away, but she grabs his arm gently, and he’s in tears again. He sniffles, and she starts ranting about Dad. His skin crawls. He can’t. He can’t he can’t he can’t. He just feels so fucking nasty, and he clutches on to Mr. Tibbs harder, and he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. But Mom keeps fucking talking, and it grates Dennis’ ears, and he’s never wanted to eat one of his dad’s several guns more than right now. She’s so fucking close, and her breath reeks of vodka and cigarettes, and she keeps talking talking talking talking. He’s going to implode.

“You’re such a special boy, sweetheart,” Mom whispers, carding her fingers through his hair. Dennis holds his breath and doesn’t move. Tears stream down his cheeks, but Mom doesn’t seem to notice. “Tell you what. Let’s just forget about that little tiff we had earlier, okay? Tell your father to go fuck himself if he gives you shit about dinner tomorrow.”

He nods.

Mom passes out mid-sentence a while later. Dennis moves away from her touch. He tiptoes to the basement with Mr. Tibbs in tow. He grabs a blanket off the couch, locks the door to the bathroom they have down there, and clicks off the light. Dennis curls in on himself in the tub, hood up and body encased in the blanket. He hugs Mr. Tibbs to his chest. It’s safe enough that he’s finally able to drift off, no longer afraid of what could get him at night.

 

* * *

 

He hurts all over.

There literally isn’t a muscle in his body that doesn’t ache. His back is fucked up from sleeping in a bathtub. There’s a sharp stabbing pain behind his right eye, enveloping that side of his head. His slashed up arms sting and burn. He stumbles upstairs without being caught by anyone other than Rosalita, their maid, who gives him a weird look but lets him go about his business.

“Hi, sweetie,” his mom coos. Dennis is so sick to his stomach. “Where were you? I woke up, and you were gone.”

Dennis’ teeth chatter, and he sways even though he’s standing still. Shit. The last thing he needs right now is his mom to get mad at him for leaving her “cuddle time” with her “special boy” in the middle of the night. “Downstairs. Was thirsty.”

“Are you alright?” Mom asks. “You’re very pale. It isn’t a good look on you.”

She reaches to touch his forehead, and Dennis immediately backs away.

“I’m fine.”

“If you say so, dear. Use some foundation and concealer. Hopefully that’ll help.”

Dennis nods. He falls into his bed on the side Mom didn’t sleep on. It hurts. He hurts.

His covers his head with a pillow, pulls the comforter around his sore body, and lets his eyes droop closed.

But Ms. Klinsky’s fingers are freezing against his waist. She strokes his dick. She tells him it’s alright to be nervous, to be unsure, and she makes suggestions to help. He comes in her mouth. She wraps her hands around his neck. She tells him that this is their little secret. Dennis is happy. Dennis is free. Dennis is scared. Dennis is hopeless. Dennis is nothing.

He fidgets back into this cold reality suddenly and then all at once.

Fuck. School. Shit.

He throws the pillow on the floor, eyes half closed when he spies the glass of apple juice, a bottle of Tylenol, and a Post It on his bedside table.

“Stay in bed. You owe me,” it reads.

The handwriting’s unmistakingly Dee’s.

Dennis hugs Mr. Tibbs closer and falls into a nightmare-laced sleep.


	2. Running to Stand Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You got to cry without weeping. Talk without speaking. Scream without raising your voice." - Running to Stand Still | U2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mac and Charlie are in the next chapter!

**Winter 1991**

Dennis’ alarm beeps at 5:50 AM.

His morning routine is nothing short of tedious, meticulous. His need to be perfect, to look perfect, is just a facet in his life. He showers, brushes his newly brace free teeth, and applies mascara, concealer, foundation, and whatever else will make him look even more amazing than he already does, if such a thing is even possible. He re-bandages wounds, carefully hiding his arms in particular with purposeful, tasteful, stylish yet comfortable, clothing.

It’s a week before Christmas break, he’s been coughing all night, and he sleeps through alarm after alarm. The snooze button isn’t Dennis’ friend. It means he’s fallen behind on his routine and needs to move quickly, but, fuck, Dennis isn’t even sure he can move right now. There’s a heavy, sharp weight sitting on his chest. He’s achy and uncomfortable beneath his thick flannel comforter he uses between the beginning of October until the end of April. His right nostril clogged, the left one’s leaking, and he lets the mess dribble on his pillowcase.

He has a history final today. An essay due in comp. A ‘pop quiz’ in pre-calc. It’s a busy day.

“Get up, boner! Mom’s gonna leave without you!” Dee screeches from outside his door, knocking loudly several times.

Dennis coughs and wheezes. He doesn’t give a shit about Dee’s barbaric, unnecessary, shrill ramblings. He’s had enough of it already.

“Have it your way,” Dee says. “I’m getting Mom.”

Dennis would roll his eyes, but that hurts too. He doesn’t even know why Mom is home. She’s never here. When she is, she’s either screaming at Dad or getting tanked or watching her stories in the basement, where she can also scream at Dad while continuing to get tanked. But Mom never drives them to school; that’s maid work. Maybe Dee’s bat shit high or something. Maybe the aluminum encasing her spine is finally getting to her head. Fucking Aluminum Monster.

“You better have a good ass reason for making me late to my hair appointment,” Mom says harshly as she enters his room – without knocking.

He shrugs. Coughs wetly. Pretends she isn’t here.

“Oh, honey,” she coos, and Dennis almost smiles. “Rosalita, come take Dennis’ temperature! Give him some NyQuil too! I have to go. Rosalita will take care of you.”

Normal parents would’ve taken their kid’s temperature and given them medicine without a second thought themselves, not have maids do it. Normal parents would’ve felt their kid’s forehead, kissed them on the cheek, reassured them that they’d get better soon. Normal parents show empathy, compassion, love. Dennis has never had ‘normal parents,’ so he tries not to be offended when Mom chooses her hair over him. It isn’t a big deal.

Rosalita does exactly what Mom told her to. She doesn’t stick around longer than that.

 

* * *

 

He’s lying on their plushy, soft couch, bundled in blankets and half-watching TV when he hears footsteps. He’s muddled with congestion, and the NyQuil is really starting to wear off; Rosalita should’ve just left him the bottle, that damn bitch. He expects to see a Latina woman with giant boobs and a snaggle tooth. Instead, he sees a dangerously short, balding man with a girl way too hot for him hanging off each arm. A bottle of vodka is clutched in both hands.

“What in the shit are you doing here?!” Dad exclaims, even though it’s nothing Dennis hasn’t seen before.

“You have a kid?” one of the girl’s asks.

Dennis forces himself into a standing position. He sways and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m going back upstairs.”

He tries to move, but Dad grabs his arm. The touch singes his already burning skin. Dennis flinches.

“Not so fast. You’re gettin’ your ass to school right now.”

“Mom knows I’m here,” Dennis says hoarsely, voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t give a flying fuck. You’re ruinin’ these girls’ lovely time. Am I right, ladies?”

The girls don’t say anything. They twirl their fingers through their long, curly hair instead, staring Dennis down like he’s a walking chicken nugget or some shit.

“Come on. Upstairs. Up up up. Let’s move!” Dad exclaims as he shuttles Dennis upstairs. “Sorry, ladies. Be back in a jiffy!’

Dennis breathes heavily through his mouth, coughing into his elbow while attempting to stay upright.

“Goddamn kids. You probably just ruined my fuckin' orgy,” Dad mutters under his breath. “What’re you lookin’ at? Go get dressed, and wipe your nose, for Christ’s sake.”

Normally, Dad would be wailing on him by now because Dennis has this tendency to run his mouth (gee, wonder where he gets that from?). He gets himself into shit with Dad, really really bad shit sometimes. But his throat hurts, and he’s close to falling asleep where he’s standing.

“Please, Dad,” Dennis grates out. “I... I don’t feel well at all. I’ll go to my room. I’ll be quiet.”

“Dennis, go upstairs, and get dressed. Rosalita’s takin’ you to school.”

“But Dad –”

Sharp sting. Cheek. Eyes watering. Shit. Fuck.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

Dennis rubs his cheek as he trudges upstairs. He exchanges his grey sweatpants for jeans, cleans his face, combs his hair, and brushes his teeth. His morning routine shattered, the world is off kilter and spinny, and Dennis doesn’t understand why Dad is doing this to him, but his bed is right fucking there. It’s warm and inviting, and there’s a full box of tissues on his bedside table, along with an extra blanket folded at the foot of the mattress.

He shoves a handful of Kleenex in his hoodie pouch, grabs his backpack, and finds his way to the foyer. His back is made of flaming knives as he bends over to put on his shoes. He coughs and inhales sharply, thickly, as he zips his coat. Dad watches him leave, eyes carefully making sure Dennis does exactly what he’s told. He doesn’t say anything and doesn’t try to fight for once. He wonders if all the screaming he does is actually worth it.

Rosalita drops him off at 10:30. He’s sitting in study hall with his history book open in front of him to study for the test. The words blur. He pillows his head in his arms, hunched over the desk and shivering. He’s ruining his perfect reputation as he sits here being a human fucking pathogen. He’s fucking gross. His hair isn’t up to standards, and he isn’t wearing makeup, and, Jesus Christ, does his chest hurt. He massages it, kneading fingers into flesh.

“Mr. Reynolds.”

He groggily lifts his head. “Sorry,” he mumbles, coughing after. “Sorry...”

The bell rings. Students not as popular or as awesome as Dennis filter out of the classroom, heading to the first cycle of lunch. His eyes droop, and he blinks heavily. He should’ve taken more meds. He should’ve taken uppers and drank an energy drink. He also should’ve just fought to stay the fuck home because this is ridiculous. Dennis has near perfect attendance as it is. Who cares if Dad wanted to bang his whores? Dennis would’ve stayed upstairs and slept, like he said he would. Dennis is a man of his word, after all.

“Why are you here, sweetie? You’re clearly unwell,” Mrs. Hans asks.

Dennis barely manages to shrug.

“Go relax in the nurse’s office, okay? She may have something to help.”

He nods. Getting his book in his bag is so taxing that Mrs. Hans does it for him, zipping it up and carefully handing it to him. He’s shaking. It hurts.

The nurse’s office bright and sterile, and Dennis is queasy when Nurse Elaine sticks a thermometer in his ear. The plastic chair murders his back. He’s close to tears.

“103. Dennis, you need to go home and rest.”

He shakes his head and feels the ghost of Dad’s hand on his cheek (which is nothing in hindsight but so much when Dennis feels this shitty). He hiccups. Tears leak out of his bloodshot, heavy eyes. Hysteria is still a few steps away, but the crying jag doesn’t stop, not even when Nurse Elaine guides him to a cot, covering him with a thin blanket and dimming the lights. He can still hear the buzz from the hallway, but it’s just dark and quiet enough that his eyes droop closed.

Dennis drifts in and out of consciousness for what seems like centuries. It’s disorientating. He doesn’t know what time it is. He’s barely able to register that he’s still at school and not in his bed, tucked away from the world under his thick flannel comforter. Fuck, that sounds so great right now. The comforter and tissues and sweatpants and Mr. Tibbs.

He hears voices and flinches. He wants to tug the blanket over his head. He wants to scream. He wants to throw up.

“Well, hello, Mr. Reynolds.”

That voice.

He knows that voice anywhere.

His skin crawls.

He teeth chatter.

No.

No no no no no no no.

Nightmare. Wake up.

It’s been over a year, but Dennis can still feel Ms. Klinsky’s thighs thrusting against his. Can still feel her cold fingers raking over his chest and back. Can still feel himself coming inside of her. Can still feel her stale breathing on his neck. He should be proud. He should be happy. He fucked a teacher at age fourteen. But he’s been avoiding her ever since, trying to forget it ever happened, even though he knows he should be bragging about it.

“Not feeling so hot today, are we?”

Dennis curls in tighter on himself. Not safe. This isn’t safe.

“Sit up, sweetie,” he hears Nurse Elaine say.

Dennis trembles violently as he pushes himself up on his elbows. Ms. Klinsky watches him narrowly. Nurse Elaine gives him two white pills and a bottle of water. He gags and coughs once he swallows. And he’s crying again, Goddammit. Stupid tears stream down his stupid cheeks, and he’s nothing and no one. He isn’t safe at school. He isn’t safe at home. He isn’t safe anywhere. His sister’s a bird. His parents suck ass. He doesn’t have any friends. Everyone is so beneath him anyway. That’s just the honest truth.

The world collapses and crumbles around him.

Dennis is rubble. Dennis is ash.

Dennis is those who never made it home.

 

* * *

 

“You look fucking disgusting,” Dee informs, like Dennis didn’t already fucking know. “I thought Mom let you stay home?”

Dennis shrugs, arms crossed over his chest as he lies on the cot in Nurse Elaine’s office. It’s been such a long, horrific day. The idea of going home is no longer as comforting, but it sure as shit beats sitting in here all day. But Nurse Elaine’s nice and let him sleep the rest of the school day away. She even gave him two more blankets to curl into and a whole box of Kleenex.

“You’re lucky. That history test was brutal. I’ll be fucking glad when this semester is over.”

Dennis coughs. Shit, he doesn’t even have the energy to make fun of his sister.

“Language, Miss Reynolds,” Nurse Elaine announces as she steps back into her office. “Your ride’s outside.”

“Thank sweet baby Jesus,” Dee says, creaking and squeaking as that fucking contraption she’s encased in squawks just like her. She bolts without looking behind her. Dennis struggles to sit up. He’s gasping for air once he does.

Nurse Elaine helps him stand. His feet are numb. “Are you gonna be alright?”

Fuck, he sure hopes so.

He nods.

“Take something when you get home, okay? And I better not see you here tomorrow.”

Dennis nods. “Thank you,” he whispers. It’s probably the first genuine thanks he’s ever given a person before.

The car is freezing as Dennis climbs into the backseat. He falls asleep to Rosalita and Dee bickering and wakes up to Dee yanking his arm so hard his shoulder pops. He feels awful. Getting inside sucks. Kicking off his shoes and coat sucks. His vision swims. He ends up collapsing in an armchair in the living room. He can’t make it any further.

Dennis coughs until his face permanently turns red. He wheezes with each breath.

“Get up,” he hears. He doesn’t open his eyes.

He groans, throwing an arm over his face.

“Don’t make me ask you twice.”

Dennis internally rolls his eyes. “You didn’t even ask.”

But then he’s being yanked up, forced to his feet until his back’s shoved against the wall.

Fuck. Fucking fuck. He doesn’t feel like dealing with Dad’s shit right now. He can smell the alcohol on his breath. He doesn’t get why Dad likes picking fights so much when he’s plastered. Dennis has been drunk before. Alcohol doesn’t make him angry. If anything, it sometimes calm that storm brewing in his chest. He feels lighter when he’s inebriated. But Dad’s never been that way. He’s almost always drunk, so this is just what Dennis gets a majority of the time.

But, luckily for Dennis, he has several inches on his dad, and he’s had enough. He pushes Dad out of his way and makes a beeline for his room upstairs. Dad gets out this Indiana Jones type whip he seems to always have on him. Dennis isn’t even scared of getting beat into oblivion right now. Literally everything already hurts anyway. What more is a few bruises?

“Oh, Jesus Christ, boys.”

Saved by the mom.

That sigh of relief definitely doesn’t come from Dennis.

Dad stops whatever he’s doing and sulks off to another room.

“Feeling better, Dennis?”

He almost cries on the spot.

“Yeah, Mom. I’m feeling better.”

It’s a lie. Everything is a lie. He isn't sick. He isn't vulnerable. He isn't anything.

Dennis is debris. Dennis is wreckage.

Dennis is those who never saw daylight.


	3. Every Breaking Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The sea knows where are the rocks, and drowning is no sign. You know where my heart is, the same place that yours has been. And we know that we fear to win, and so we end before we begin." - Every Breaking Wave | U2

**Fall 1992**

He’s sitting in the galaxy’s squeakiest desk.

The unsteadiness, the shrillness, the teeter-totting effect sends shock waves down Dennis’ spine. Anger nips at the base of his skull. He’s a Reynolds, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t have to deal with this poor, underfunded bullshit of a school. He shouldn’t have a squeaky chair. He shouldn’t. He’s a god. He’s a Golden God with a body sculpted for greatness, and greatness has no time for inconveniences, especially the ones that make Dennis’ brain vibrate.

Dennis is rich as shit. Dennis is handsome. Dennis is everything to this world.

His pen scrawls across his notebook. The desk squeaks again. Dennis clenches his jaw.

Motherfucker.

Holy shit.

The noise is grating. Awful. Worse than Mr. Chaucer chewing on a pencil while he grades papers or Ronnie the Rat popping humungous bubbles with his gum at the back of the room or Dirt Grub relentlessly tapping his feet. Worse than Adriano’s overly masculine, borderline psychotic laugh. Worse than the scraping of Dee’s back brace against literally any surface. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like this. He shouldn’t be subjected to this kind of torture.

He bites the inside of his cheek so hard it bleeds. He sets his pen down and puts his head in his hands.

Fuuuuuck.

Dennis is counting backwards from 100 when Ronnie the Rat pops another bobble.

“Will you fucking stop that?” Dennis asks, albeit more loudly than he registers.

Ronnie the Rat just looks at him like Dennis has lost his Goddamn mind.

“Mr. Reynolds,” Mr. Chaucer says unenthusiastically. Dumbass bitch. “Principal’s office. Now.”

Dennis exaggerates wildly, passionately, and it jars his squeaky desk.

Fucking motherfucker.

He stands up.

“For what? Huh?” Dennis asks. “For fucking Ronnie the Rat blowing a Goddamn bubble every five fucking seconds? For your chewed up pencil remains? Which, by the way, is absolutely fucking disgusting. You’re a grown ass man. For the squeakiest, most annoying motherfucking desk in the history of motherfucking desks? Is that why you want me to go to the principal’s office for? Huh, pal? Huh?”

Mr. Chaucer sighs. “Mr. Reynolds –”

“No. Don’t ‘Mr. Reynolds’ me, you piece of shit. You’re all beneath me anyway. I don’t know why I sit and listen to this garbage in the first place. I don’t have to put up with this. I mean, have you seen me? I could get any puss in this room right now.”

The classroom is silent. Dennis still hears the desk rattling and shaking. It’s beyond irritating.

“Okay, that’s enough. Get outta here.”

Dennis crosses his arms over his chest, inching closer to Mr. Chaucer. “Oh yeah? What’re you gonna do about it? How’re you gonna make me leave? You gonna fuck some little boys until your wife leaves you again? You gonna smoke the weed you confiscate? Huh?”

The bell rings. The rest of the class freezes for a split second, and Dennis feels a stream of sunshine on his face.

“You can go now, Mr. Reynolds,” Mr. Chaucer says. He’s seething. There’s a vein popping out of his middle aged, wrinkly forehead. Dennis wins.

Dennis always wins.

“I’m not sitting in that fucking desk tomorrow. Fuck your seating arrangement.”

He exits the classroom with his head held high.

“Dude, that was so badass!”

He hears this, but he really isn’t in the mood to talk anymore. His head hurts. He doesn’t like the excessive, repetitive, loud noises that accompany this environment. He much prefers listening to Bryan Adams or Steve Winwood at a comfortable, medium level on his Walkman. It’s safer that way. It doesn’t hurt his ears and definitely doesn’t make his head throb like this.

“Yo, Dennis!”

Dennis snaps around. “WHAT?” It’s Ronnie the Rat. Dirt Grub is behind him. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

He starts walking again, but then there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t fucking touch me, okay?” Dennis spits at Ronnie. “Don’t talk to me. Hell, don’t even look at me. I’m way too im–”

Ronnie waves him off. “Yeah yeah yeah. You’re, like, a silver goose or some shit. Wanna smoke?”

Dennis’ eyebrows furrow. “What? Now?”

Ronnie the Rat is the school’s one and only drug dealer. He ratted out his competitors and now has the corner on the market. It’s smart, actually, but Dennis would never say that out loud. He’s this poor piece of shit with greasy, slicked back hair, a worn leather jacket, and navy pants that are too short on him. Dirt Grub is Ronnie’s only friend, and he gets why. Dirt Grub’s really short, smells like cheese and cat food, and always wears that same grey hoodie every single fucking day. They look absolutely horrible. Trash. Scum. Dennis is way better than them.

But, still, the idea of letting off some steam sounds inviting.

“Yeah, dude. C’mon,” Ronnie says, ushering him toward an exit.

Dennis doesn’t follow him. “No. No way. I’ll buy from you, Ronnie, but I’m not hanging out with you and Dirt Grub over there.”

“Okay, first off, his name’s Charlie. Mine’s Mac. And, also, you’re a huge fucking prick.”

Dennis’ eyes widen. “What did you say to me, Rat?”

“Get off your fuckin’ high pony, man. What you did back there was awesome and pretty scary. We think it was really cool, so come on.”

“It’s ‘high horse,’” Dennis mumbles, and Ronnie rolls his eyes. But he did just say that they think he’s cool. Damn right. He’s fucking amazing. It’s about time someone else sees it too. “And sure. Why the fuck not?”

Dennis tucks his hands in his coat pocket as they head outside. It’s starting to rain, a cold mist enveloping Philly like a straightjacket, tight and compact and solid. They hole up under the bleachers. Dennis shivers, teeth chattering wildly as Ronnie pulls out a crisply rolled joint. The air is enough to make his headache dull from a throb to an ache, but he knows kush will help him even more. Make him stronger, more resilient.

Ronnie takes the first hit before passing it to Dirt Grub. Dennis grimaces because he doesn’t want to swap spit with this kid, but he ignores it for some reason and inhales deeply. He coughs a little; it’s been a while since he smoked stuff this strong. Sure, he’s a seasoned smoker at only 16, but those are cigarettes, and he’s more than used to them at this point. He shares packs with his mom, who is surprisingly cool about the whole thing.

They take turns smoking mostly in silence. Dirt Grub and Ronnie the Rat roast each other with lame slams every now and then like it’s a competition, but Dennis remains quiet. Eventually, his eyes are lead, and he’s struggling to keep them open. His head is cool and calm, peace coming in waves instead of anger or irritation. Shit. He forgot how good – actually good – weed makes him feel. Dennis swears he can almost get in touch with his emotions right now. He isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing, seeing as he doesn’t really have feelings, but the notion that he’s even remotely normal against this ‘normal’ world is enough.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if, like, there was a huge pizza made outta chocolate chip cookies?” Dirt Grub mumbles. He’s lying on his belly on the gravel, hood up and eyes bloodshot to shit. He’s picking at strands of dying grass with filthy fingers. Dennis cringes.

Ronnie the Rat giggles from beside Dennis. “It wouldn’t be a pizza anymore then, bro.”

“You don’t know that for sure. It could have powers or somethin’.”

Dennis rolls his eyes.

“A pizza cookie that has powers,” Ronnie says as he exhales smoke into the open air. “That’d be pretty awesome, dude.”

Ronnie sprawls out to where his head is pillowed by Dirt Grub’s back, using it as a pillow or some shit. Dennis gulps. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, locking his fingers and burying his cheek in his jeans. He could fall asleep right here. He hasn’t been sleeping. Between Mom coming in every night and the nightmares, it’s a wonder he’s still alive at this point. Must just be the booze or cigarettes or energy drinks or coffee.

“Yo, dude!” he hears.

Dennis snaps his eyes open. “What?”

“Let’s get outta here. Me ‘n Charlie are thirsty.”

Dennis furrows his eyebrows. “What the fuck do you want me to do about that?”

“You have a car, right?” Ronnie asks.

“Slurpees!” Dirt Grub screeches at an unreasonable, immeasurable volume. “We gotta go get Slurpees, Mac. Blue, y’know?”

Dennis has a car. Dennis has an awesome car. A navy blue 1992 Acura NSX. Heated seats. Leather interior. But the thought of Dirt Grub and Ronnie the Rat actually sitting in his car is almost enough to repulse him. Almost. But Dennis’ tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth, and, honestly, a blue Slurpee does sound really fucking good right now. Sure, it’ll set back his calorie count and sugar intake for the day, but he punched another hole in his belt this morning, so he should be fine. Or he’ll just puke it up later. Or he won’t eat tomorrow. Or both.

“Fine,” he breathes out. “But don’t fuck up my –”

Dirt Grub and Ronnie the Rat are already hopping the school’s fence and bounding to Dennis’ car.

“Shotgun!” Dirt Grub screams.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Dennis rolls his eyes and walks around to the exit, hands buried in his coat pockets.

They’re fighting over the passenger seat when Dennis unlocks the doors. Dirt Grub swings violently when Ronnie the Rat manages to squeak his way next to Dennis. He pouts but resigns to the backseat. His anger doesn’t last long, though; Dirt Grub’s immediately enamored with Dennis’ awesome ass car, just as he should be.

“This musta cost, like, a billion dollars,” Dirt Grub says in awe.

Dennis shrugs as he backs out of his assigned parking spot. At least his car isn’t noisy like that fucking desk. “It’s nothing really.”

His father bought it for his 16th birthday last month. Dee didn’t get a car. Her grades are shit, and she’s shit, so it makes perfect sense. This car has ‘Mom’ written all over it, but Dennis doesn’t really care. He gets more independence this way. Last night, he relaxed in the back under a comforter stashed in the trunk while Mom and Dad fought relentlessly. He smoked and listened to his Walkman and used a book light to read.

Dennis focuses on the road in front of him, eyes glassy and mind fogged as Dirt Grub and Ronnie the Rat argue mercilessly. About what? Dennis really fucking isn’t sure, and he sure as shit doesn’t care, but the loudness, the sheer abruptness, of their conversation makes his knuckles turn ghost white. He clenches his jaw. His body craves quiet.

He’s about to fucking implode when Ronnie stops yelling, which, in turn, makes Dirt Grub stop too. Dennis bites his lip. Ronnie the Rat’s in his fucking car. His dumbass slicked back hair touches the headrest. His leather jacket clad torso rubs against the heated, leather interior. He’s smiling. He has a nice smile. Soft eyes. Wait. No. Stop it.

“Thanks, dude,” Ronnie says. “You’re the best.”

He’s the best.

Dennis is the best. He knows he’s the best.

Feeding Dennis’ ego is a good start for Ronnie the Rat.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he pulls into 7-Eleven. Dirt Grub gets the biggest blue Slurpee he can find. Ronnie gets white cherry instead. Dennis ends up just grabbing a bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes with his fake ID instead. Ronnie the Rat coaxes him into buying booze, so they walk away with a 24 case of Corona and Fireball Cinnamon Whisky.

No one that matters is at Dennis’ house right now, so he drives there. He would rather go to the park or something and get wasted, but it’s cold as shit outside, Dirt Grub is snotting all over his grey hoodie, and Ronnie’s cheeks are bright red.

When he pulls into his driveway, Ronnie gasps.

“You live here?”

Dennis nods, turning off the engine. “Yep.”

“Holy shit, dude. I knew you were rich, but I didn’t know you were that rich.”

Dirt Grub seconds that the second they get inside. “This place is huge!”

Ronnie the Rat and Dirt Grub wander around, knocking into things and touching greasy fingerprints to Mom’s fancy art. He’ll get someone to clean it up later. Dennis leads them to the basement, and Dirt Grub shrieks when he spies the giant ass TV screen. He hugs it instantly. “I could watch so many cartoons on this thing!”

Dennis rolls his eyes, collapses on the plushy leather couch, and covers himself with a quilt. He turns on MTV and cracks open a beer. Dirt Grub sits crisscross applesauce on the floor, and Ronnie plops down at the other end of the couch. Beer dribbles on the cushion. His head’s still weird, that awful combination of screaming and annoyance and exhaustion, but the alcohol helps. Dirt Grub’s surprisingly on key singing does too. Ronnie rolls another joint and gives the whole thing to Dennis wordlessly. He lights up and melts into the couch.

Ronnie changes the channel. They’re watching Dexter’s Laboratory. Dennis is sprawled out, Chucks off and head cradled by this fluffy ass pillow.

“You can put your feet on me, bro,” he hears Ronnie’s say, voice underwater. “I don’t mind.”

Dennis flinches and inhales sharply, but he’s stoned and drunk, and he rests his socked feet on Ronnie’s thigh. It’s nice. It’s the most physical contact he’s had minus Dad’s fist or Mom and Ms. Klinsky in years. Ronnie doesn’t touch him, which he’s grateful for. He just lets Dennis relax there without waiting to be pushed away. It’s nice... He’s nice.

He giggles when Dirt Grub burps obnoxiously.

“Eh, I give it a 6.”

“No way, dude! That was at least an 8!” Dirt Grub exclaims.

Suddenly, Dennis feels two pairs of eyes on him. He almost shrinks away. Almost. But then he gets it. He understands.

“That was pretty ripe, bro. I say 8,” Dennis says.

“Yes! I am Charlie: King of the Burps!”

Dirt Grub – Charlie – bangs on his chest like King Kong. Dennis laughs.

“More like King of the Assholes,” Ronnie the Rat – Mac – says.

Dennis snickers. He feels light. Happy. Free. “That was such a lame comeback, dude...” he murmurs. He burps, loudly, he might add, three seconds later.

“That was awesome!” Dirt Grub – Charlie – shouts.

“I can do better!” Ronnie – Mac – reasons.

Mac lets out the weakest belch Dennis thinks he’s ever heard. He and Charlie laugh. It hurts his stomach. His eyes water. His head feels amazing. Dennis isn’t used to this, not even close, but he thinks he can be. He can get used to this. He can get used to Mac and Charlie and drinking and smoking and skipping school and burping contests and laughing til he pukes.

“You guys suck ass!”

He thinks he likes this. Them. Charlie and Mac.

Yeah. He thinks he does.


	4. Ultraviolet (Light My Way)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh sugar, don't you cry. Oh child, wipe the tears from your eyes. You know I need you to be strong, and the day is as dark as the night is long. Feel like trash, you make me feel clean. I'm in the black, can't see or be seen. Baby, baby, baby, light my way." - Ultraviolet (Light My Way) | U2

**Spring 1993**

Dennis meets Mac under the bleachers everyday.

It’s their pre-morning, morning, pre-lunch, lunch, post-lunch, and after school tradition. Ever since Mac became the only drug dealer on campus, Dennis sees him a lot more often. He and Mac are in the same grade and share a few classes together. Mac comes over to his house, sometimes with Charlie and sometimes alone. He isn’t sure what that makes them. Acquaintances? Friends? Or maybe Mac is just his drug dealer.

They smoke weed. Sometimes, Dennis switches it up and inhales cigarette after cigarette.

Mac doesn’t really like tobacco, but he never says no when Dennis offers it to him. Dennis knows Mac’ll do anything to please him, even if it is smoking something he doesn’t actually want to smoke. He has Mac wrapped around his finger, and that’s where Mac’s going to stay, shoulder to shoulder with him while Dennis inhales the familiar, comforting scent of earth and two colognes and weed.

Today, Dennis shivers and blows out puffs of cigarette smoke. He hears Mac sigh as he plops down on a patch of gravel, pulling a really well rolled joint and his lighter out of an old Ziploc bag stored in his leather pocket. Mac always copies his homework, so he pretty much gets weed for free, which is nice. Mac’s eyes are already glassy and red.

Mac doesn’t say anything. Instead, he waits until Dennis stubs out his cigarette and offers him a hit. Dennis accepts wordlessly.

Dennis is a God. He knows he’s perfect. But, sometimes, like right now, there’s this niggling, nagging, annoying ass tingle shooting up his spine into his brain. He feels hollow. Empty. Numb. His God Hole can’t be filled. It hurts to smile. Fuck, it hurts to talk, to scream, to rant, all of which Dennis is excellent at doing, by the way. He’s great at everything, after all. But he wonders if staring off into the distance and sitting perfectly still for hours at a time is normal. It’s probably creepy, especially to Mac and Charlie. But Mac hangs out with him regardless.

He watches the girl’s soccer team scrimmage on the football field and feels nothing.

Dennis takes another hit. He tugs his black beanie over his red ears, hiding the visibility of his perfect curls from the freezing early April air. He stuffs his hands deep inside his jacket pockets. Dennis knows Mac watches him draw his knees to his chest and listens to him sniffle.

“Everything alright, dude?” Mac asks quietly.

This always goes one of two ways. One: Dennis flips the fuck out and yells at him for being nosy or annoying or stupid. Two: Dennis reluctantly tells him what’s wrong and then bolts as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Dennis shrugs. “Just really tired.”

He won’t sleep. Not after last week. Ms. Klinsky cornered him in the library. Asked why he never comes around anymore. Dennis wound up with his pants around his ankles and Ms. Klinsky’s nails digging into his back. He sat on the floor of his bedroom slashing open his left forearm until the world filtered into focus. Mom yelled at him for wasting valuable food from not eating. Dee’s brace kept making these horrible screeching noises. Dad knocked him around a little. Mom snuck into his room at night. Her fingers are always so fucking cold.

Mac inhales the last hit of the joint before snuffing it out on the gravel. “Not sleeping again?”

He knows, but only because he caught Dennis talking to a tree, gesturing wildly without a care in the world, last Thursday. It’s none of Mac’s fucking business, but he will admit it’s nice that someone seems to care whether he’s sleeping or not because Ms. Klinksy and Mom and Dad and Dee obviously don’t give a single percent of a shit.

“Something like that,” Dennis says softly.

Mac frowns. “Wanna talk about it?”

Dennis shrugs and then shakes his head. “It’s... It’s not important,” he whispers. “Wanna go to my place? It’s cold as shit out here.”

Mac follows him like a puppy, just like always. Dennis must be damn near baked out of his mind because, holy fuck, this weed is strong as shit, so he doesn’t really remember or acknowledge the walk home. He just remembers smoking cigarettes like they’re no longer being manufactured, coughing and spluttering. The cold air soaks into his skin like a wet blanket, and suddenly he feels like he’s part of Mother Nature herself.

Dennis kicks off his Chucks while Mac messily unties his boots. Without a word, Dennis heads upstairs to his room. Mac is used to the enormity of their home, so he knows where Dennis’ dad keeps the hard alcohol and where to find the good ice cream (basement freezer #3). He and Mac have roamed all over, exploring when they’re especially high or drunk.

He collapses on his neatly made bed, back relishing the thick memory foam topper, and he stares at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. The stars Josephina put up when he was five and scared of the dark are still there. He’s 16. He should take them down. But there’s something comforting about the mellow, barely illuminating glow that makes him feel safe. His eyes are so heavy. He’s barely slept in over a week.

Mac plops on the squishy, soft mattress after placing two bottles of Mountain Dew on the nightstand. “Want me to go home?”

Dennis immediately shakes his head, vulnerability and weakness lighting him up like a Christmas tree. He’s too tired to care. It – this – makes him look like an idiot who actually needs people like Mac in his life. He keeps his eyes closed, afraid of what he’ll find if he dares to open them.

“No,” Dennis whispers.

“You sure, dude? You really look like you should get some sleep.”

Dennis grumbles before rolling over and facing Mac. He’s too stoned. Too exhausted. “Don’t want you to go...”

He feels Mac flinch when he pushes his forehead against Mac’s chest. Move past it. This isn’t happening. Blame it on the weed. But Dennis is scrunched up on the bed, folded knees touching Mac’s shin, and, fuck, does it feel good. Mac is warm and solid, and Dennis tries to ignore how fucking weird this is. He’s never like this. Not with anyone. Not even himself.

“Are you falling asleep?” Mac questions gently.

Dennis nods, but he doesn’t utter another word.

“Okay, dude,” Mac says, adjusting Dennis so his head is pillowed and his body is covered with the blanket at the foot of his bed. Dennis whines and throws an arm around Mac’s waist.

Dennis doesn’t feel the frigid air. He doesn’t feel Ms. Klinsky’s nails on his back or Mom’s fingers on his waist. He feels protected, safe, secure.

He feels Mac.


	5. Staring at the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's been a long, hot summer. Let's go undercover. Don't try too hard to think; don't think at all. I'm not the only one staring at the sun, afraid of what you'd find if you look inside. Not just deaf and dumb. Staring and the sun. Not the only one who's happy to go blind." - Staring at the Sun | U2

**Summer 1993**

Dennis hates summer.

He doesn’t like how the sun fucking follows him wherever he goes. He’s a good looking guy, he gets that, but that doesn’t mean he wants it to be so sunny all the time. Excessive sun means sunburn, and, while Dennis has a body chiseled by the Gods themselves, he isn’t exactly what he’d call ‘summer ready.’ Dee calls him pale; he slaps her in the teeth.

Dennis would much rather hang out in the AC, even if it does get too cold, and he’s bundled beneath his comforter to keep warm. He likes listening to music, watching TV, smoking and drinking, doing his or Dee’s makeup, that kind of stuff. He isn’t an outdoors kind of guy.

Unluckily for him, Mac is.

The summer before their senior year literally just started, and Mac’s been disturbing his sleeping schedule, his afternoon rom coms, his Steve Winwood jam sessions, and his nightly soaks in lavender bubble bath since Friday. Mac makes him go to this concert at the park. Mac makes him eat a hotdog he and Charlie grilled on the engine of Charlie’s mom’s piece of shit car. Mac makes him guzzle water to stay hydrated and wear fucking sunscreen and, fuck, he just wants to go home.

Which won’t be happening any time soon.

He’s driving his car, white knuckling the steering wheel. His body feels like it’s in knots. There’s blinding pressure building at the base of his skull. If he hears Mac, Dee, or Charlie complain one more fucking time, he’s going to ram the car into an incoming 18-wheeler with zero hesitation. That’s simply a fact at this point.

“I will pee literally everywhere if we don’t pull over right now!” Dee screeches.

Dennis rolls his eyes. Charlie smacks his gum. Mac flips her off.

“Use the piss jar!” Mac shouts.

Dennis winces at the commotion. His head hurts. Mac starts rummaging around his beat up duffle bag like a Goddamn animal.

“I am not peeing in a jar! That thing has blood in it!”

Charlie shrugs. “Only a little, though. I think it’s a crow’s.”

“It shouldn’t have any blood in it! It shouldn’t! Goddammit, I swear to God –”

But that’s all that Dennis hears. He massages his neck, popping his back and eyes unfocusing behind his sunglasses.

“Here, bro.”

Mac shoves two white pills and a warm bottle of water at him. Dennis downs them both instantly.

“Are you sure we’re still in Philly?” Charlie asks warily from the backseat. “Because there’s, like, lots of trees out here, and Philly isn’t a very tree-y place. You guys swore we wouldn’t leave Philly. I’ve never been outta Philly, and –”

Mac turns around briefly. “We’re still in Philly, dude. I swear.”

Dennis watches Charlie nod. The kid gulps, face ghost white and legs relentlessly shaking.

Camping sucks dick, and they aren’t even there yet.

Where does Mac get these stupid ass ideas? Summer is supposed to be fun. Dennis is supposed to be relaxing and enjoying himself, two things he most definitely isn’t doing right now.

“That’s it! I’m pissing right fucking now on your fancy imported seats!”

“Do it, and die, bitch,” Dennis seethes, eyes narrow and jaw clenched.

Dee uses the jar. Charlie starts singing made up road trip songs about spiders and ghouls. Mac navigates with a map older than their parents. Dennis drives.

It’s the heat of the Goddamn day when they arrive at their makeshift campsite by some sort of lake. Charlie and Mac bitch about how to set up the tent. Dee pisses for the billionth Goddamn time. Dennis takes stock of inventory. Two cases of beer, a fuck ton of whiskey, a twelve pack of Coke, cigarettes, weed, towels, water bottles, sandwiches, chips, toilet paper, deodorant, toothbrushes and toothpaste, sleeping bags, Dennis’ CD player. Huh. Seems like it’s all here.

Dennis smokes a blunt while Mac, Charlie, and Dee pitch the tent. Mac steals a few puffs, but that’s alright.

Charlie abandons the tent project in favor of jumping into lake fully clothed, shoes and all.

“What the fuck, dude?” Mac yells. “We gotta get this thing built first!”

Dennis squints into the heavy afternoon sun; Charlie shakes his head. “I’m hot as shit, Mac! I need to rest!”

“You rested the whole way here, bitch!”

“Tomato, potato.” Charlie waves him off and continues to swim in circles.

“Yeah, I’m with Charlie,” Dee says. She isn’t wearing that God awful back brace, so she pops off her top like they’re supposed to be impressed by her. Gross. Dee’s a fucking bird, and she should know it by now. “I’m gonna go get my swim on.”

Dennis brushes his hands on his jeans, standing up and walking over to the half-pitched tent. Mac’s sulking. His eyes are sad. Dennis doesn’t like it when Mac’s sad. It’s the worst thing in the universe. Wow, this weed’s strong. Okay. Stop it. Quit looking at him like that.

“I fucking hate your sister, bro,” Mac tells him.

Dennis nods. “She’s the worst.”

“Wanna swim?”

He nods again. Dennis hesitates when he drops his jeans, aware that he got a little carried away with a razor a couple nights ago. His right forearm’s wrapped in gauze from where he held the lighter to his skin for too long. It isn’t good. This isn’t good. He didn’t even think about this. But fuck it. He’s high. Dee knows he does this. Mac knows because he found him hiding in the basement bathroom a couple months ago, babbling from exhaustion and blood loss.

Fuck, he’s such a fucking baby.

“You look great, Den,” Mac says softly.

Dennis smiles. “I do, don’t I?”

Rocky sand squishes between Dennis’ toes as he and Mac make their way into the water. Charlie stares hard for a second at Dennis before he flashes him a confused grin and returns to spitting water from his mouth like a seal. Dennis adjusts to the temperature until Dee pushes him all the way in, ruining his hair and makeup in the process.

“You Goddamn bitch! I will fucking murder you!” he screams, wiping his eyes with bandaged fingers.

“Christ, calm down, Dennis,” Dee says.

Dennis rolls his eyes. Mac’s hand brushes against his side underwater. It’s okay. That’s okay.

The gang hangs out in the lake until the sun starts to set. They drink. They play Chicken, where Mac and Dennis annihilate the shit out of Charlie and Dee. They find an old tire swing, and Mac rigs it to where they probably won't die while using it. Dennis feels free on the swing, that good combination of pleasantly stoned and peacefully drunk. He uses the time to stare at the muscles in Mac’s back.

His skin is shriveled to shit by the time Mac hands him a towel. Dennis’ teeth chatter as he wraps it around his body like a cape. He puts his jeans back on, the fabric stinging the swollen, irritated skin. He isn’t bleeding, but he should probably put antibacterial ointment on it before he goes to sleep. He throws on a random ass t-shirt from his bag. He picks at the gauze sopping on his arm.

Dee’s changing in the car while Charlie fusses over a nonexistent campfire. The tent still isn’t ready, but Mac comes over to Dennis at the picnic table with a first aid kit in hand. He looks sheepish. Dennis wants to punch him in his nards.

“I’m gonna rewrap your arm,” he says as he sits down.

Dennis rolls his eyes. “You most certainly will not.”

“Who d’ya think wrapped it the other day, bro? Just shut the fuck up, and let me do this.”

Dennis huffs and waves his left hand at Mac. Whatever. He doesn’t give a shit. So what? So what if Mac’s hands are soft and sweet on his skin? So what if the touches linger longer than they should? So what if Dennis keeps staring at Mac like he’s about to disappear into thin air because what if he does? Dennis gulps and shakes his head and tries to move past it.

His arm wrapped in clean gauze and secured with medical tape, Dennis tugs on a light jacket and flips the hood up. He walks over to Mac, who’s studying the tent instructions very intently. It’s a good look on him. Dennis carefully grabs the paper from Mac’s soft hands, glances it over, and, with Mac’s help, gets the tent to where it actually looks like a fucking tent. They bump fists. It isn’t what Dennis wants to do, but he guesses it’s better than nothing. It’s better than when he used to be utterly alone in the world, floating around aimlessly without purpose.

“Fucking finally!” Dee exclaims. She drops her sleeping bag in the tent and sprawls out like the bird she is.

Charlie does manage to get the fire going. They set up folding camping chairs and roast marshmallows for dinner. They drink and pass three joints around their circle. Birds tweet. Bugs hiss. Wind blows. Dennis stares up at the stars, naming constellations and listening to the rest of the gang ramble about whatever. It’s the most Dennis has felt in a long time. Now, what these feelings are called, he really isn’t sure, but it’s nice to know he can feel something besides anger or rage or depression or isolation sometimes still.

Dee falls asleep first. Charlie dozes off in his chair, marshmallow plastered on his lips and coating his fingertips. It’s slathered on his shirt and shorts and bare feet. Mac hauls Charlie to the tent, lifting the kid up in his arms and coaxing him into a moth-eaten, stale sleeping bag. Dennis stares and watches Mac’s ass.

He and Mac share another blunt. They down two more beers each. They don’t talk much, and it’s nice. Serene. Quiet. Dennis isn’t a fan of excessive noise. But the sounds of nature combined with Charlie’s obnoxious, drunken snoring is almost comforting. It wraps around him like a cocoon. He lets his eyes droop shut and only opens them again when Mac’s hand touches his shoulder.

“Wanna go to bed, Den?” he asks softly.

The world is hazy and blurry, and Mac’s so perfect. Blindingly perfect. Why is he like this?

Dennis shakes his head.

“You sure?”

He nods. His eyes close again.

“You ever think about what’s gonna happen to us when school’s over?” Mac asks. “I mean, it’s almost senior year, and I know you’ll be goin’ to some rich kid’s school, but, like what about me and Charlie?”

Dennis shrugs. “Nothing’s gonna change, bro.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“But how?”

Dennis sighs. “Jesus Christ, Mac. We’re friends, right? Friends stick together. I may leave for college in a year, but that doesn’t mean we won’t ever see each other again.”

“I guess,” Mac says. “I just... I’ll miss you, when you go.”

“If I go...” Dennis whispers.

“You’re going, Den. You’re way too smart to fuck up your life and stay here in Philly.”

Dennis absentmindedly rubs his fingers over his right forearm. “I’m already a fuck up.”

He flinches hard when Mac’s knee touches his. He breathes in sharply when Mac puts his hand on his thigh. He almost dies when Mac stares him straight in the eye.

“You’re not a fuck up, Den. You’re amazing.”

“You really think so?”

Mac smiles and gently massages Dennis’ thigh; Dennis isn’t even sure Mac knows what he’s doing. “I know so.”

Dennis’ eyes slip shut some time after that.

He wakes up in the morning in his sleeping bag with a face full of Mac’s hair. It's the best sleep he's gotten in weeks.


	6. Drowning Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The storms will pass. It won't be long now. His love will last. His love will last, forever." - Drowning Man | U2

**Fall 1993**

Tomorrow’s Halloween.

Dennis is supposed to be getting ready for a surely epic party hosted by Adriano Calvanese. It’s Saturday night, for fuck’s sake, and he’s holed up in his bedroom, door locked and staring blankly at the ceiling. He’s still wearing pajamas. His head hurts. His chest feels like it’s on fire, a gaping hole that everyone can see utterly bare and visible. This isn’t... It doesn’t... He doesn’t feel right. The world’s spinning and off-kilter, and his brain itches for a distraction.

He hears Dee’s girly ass music shit pounding through the walls. She’s cycling between Roll With It, Prove Your Love, and Everything Your Heart Desires. That’s it. While he actually did use to like all of those songs, they’re making his stomach slosh uncomfortably. It’s repetitive. It’s annoying. He wants to slam his hand through the Goddamn wall and maul her stereo until it’s in pieces. He wants to rip out her lungs and voice box and bury them in the fucking backyard. He wants to shove a brick down her Goddamn throat until she coughs up her organs. 

Dennis paces his room, biting his already painfully short nails until one or two of them bleed. He’s a God. He’s a God. This doesn’t happen to Gods. But maybe it fucking does because his hands trembling viciously, and he’s about to fucking throw up. He doesn’t know why this keeps happening to him, why the universe hates him, why he’s even here in the first place. It’d be so incredibly easy to just let it all slip away, his numbing existence long forgotten.

Okay. Fuck. That’s it.

Dennis throws open his bathroom door, grabs a razor, and carves up the skin on his left side. The cuts aren’t that deep, but they sting like a son of a bitch, and blood pools into the tub, and Dennis can finally fucking breathe for the first time all day. It’s cathartic, really. He shouldn’t be doing this to himself, to his perfect body, but it helps. It fills up his God Hole, even if it’s only momentarily. It helps him not feel so alone in a world he doesn’t even want to be in. So he slices and lets the razor do its thing. He ends up moving from his side to his forearm, hastily throwing his baggy t-shirt off to press it against the broken flesh as he continues his work.

He lets himself float away. He lets himself forget. He lets himself bleed because bleeding works.

There’s a sharp series of knocks on his bedroom door. Dennis doesn’t bother answering it. He doesn’t even flinch. It’s locked. Dee knows not to disturb him at all times, especially when his door is locked. Mom and Dad are both out of town. The maids will leave his clothes or towels or food on a table in the hallway. He closes his eyes and slices open a blemish, imperfection, from two days ago. It bleeds. It hypnotizes Dennis.

It puts him in such a trance that he barely registers frantic, unsteady movement coursing through his veins. He covers his ears with crimson stained hands. No noise. He can’t do noise right now. His chest tightens. His breath quickens. His sweatpants are scratchy on his skin. There’s screaming and shouting and Mac losing his Goddamn mind. Dennis pulls his hair and hunches in on himself, burying his face in his knees.

“Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit. What do I do? What do I do?” Mac yells to himself, and Dennis flinches hard. This doesn’t represent him. This doesn’t represent him. Mac will think he’s crazy, and maybe he is. But he doesn’t want to lose Mac. He doesn’t want any of this. He wants to be happy. He wants to be free. He wants anything and everything but this. “Why the fuck do you keep doing this to yourself, Dennis?” Mac questions. He sounds mad. Is he mad?

Dennis bursts into tears.

He’s okay.

He’s okay he’s okay he’s okay he’s okay he’s okay.

Idiot. Fucking idiot. Why the shit is he such a fucking idiot?

Dennis breathes in and out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

In. In in in in...

He chokes and coughs and splutters.

Dumbass. Why did he have to ruin a good thing? Why did he sabotage himself? Why did he have to make Mac leave?

They’re 17, but Mac talks about the importance of communication. Mac comes from a broken home. Dennis doesn’t do talking. He doesn’t like to unless it’s about himself. But Mac urges for him to express himself even if it hurts. Mac wants him to listen to other people, to respect opinions and boundaries, but Dennis just wants Mac. All of Mac. He’s fucking pissed at Mac for doing this to him, for making him think about his life, but that sinking feeling is still there.

He’s crawling out of his skin. He pulls at his hair over and over again before Mac tugs his hands away. His vision blurs.

Breathe. He has to breathe. All he gets are heavy, shallow breaths, like inhaling through a clogged straw.

He needs a cigarette. He needs a bottle of whiskey. He needs Mac.

But Mac deserves better.

“Please...” Dennis finally whispers. “Leave.”

Mac shakes his head, his grip on Dennis tightening. Dennis gags at the touch. “What? No way, dude. I’m not leaving you.”

Dennis grumbles, harshly pulling himself away from Mac and slamming the back of his head against the tiled shower behind him. It doesn’t hurt. What hurts is Mac’s fucking skin against his. His body burns. He can hear Dee’s music growing louder, thrashing around in his skull. Quiet. He needs quiet. He needs to clean up, crawl in bed, and ignore the world for a while.

Mac reaches and puts his hand on Dennis’ bloody arm.

“Don’t touch me!” Dennis shouts, voice cracking. “You... Y-You can stay, but please don’t touch me...”

“Christ, dude...” Mac mumbles. “Okay. Fine. No touching. What can I do then? Do you want some different pajamas or some shit?”

Dennis shakes his head. Tears are still streaming down his cheeks. His head is about to explode. “Just... I’ll handle it. I gotta clean... this...”

He goes to stand up. He wavers unsteadily on his feet. His vision darkens. But he doesn’t feel Mac’s hands on him, and he’s grateful for that. Mac listens. Mac understands. Mac never makes him do anything he doesn’t want to do. Mac’s eyes are staring straight into his skull, but Dennis ignores him and ignores his reflection in the mirror. He’s dizzy. Sore. Thirsty.

“Privacy?” Dennis murmurs.

“I’m gonna be right outside this door,” Mac says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Dennis watches the blood pour down the drain. His body wash singes his carved skin. He gets a little shampoo in his eyes. His side is still bleeding pretty freely as he shuts off the water. It has to be the quickest shower in the history of showers. He still feels really gross. He messily wraps his side and forearm with gauze and secures it with the medical tape he keeps under the sink. A clean pair of plaid boxers and a green long sleeved shirt lies next to his hair products. Mac. He puts them on thoughtlessly, cleaning the bathroom until it’s spotless before opening the door.

Mac’s sitting in his beanbag chair, a joint in one hand and a glass of apple juice in the other. He offers both of them to Dennis without saying a word. Dennis takes the joint and juice and carefully sits down on his messy bed, back against the headboard. He stares off into the distance. He waits to hear Dee’s fucking music, but it’s silent and peaceful, and his head really fucking needs this right now. He tugs the enormous pile of blankets up to his chest. He downs the apple juice easily, so easily he almost asks Mac for a refill, and lights the joint with shaky fingers.

“What happened in there, Den?” Mac asks softly. His voice still grates Dennis’ ears, but it’s not as bad as before.

Dennis inhales sharply. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Well, I think we should talk about it. You’re gonna kill yourself one day if you keep doing this shit.”

Dennis nods, numbly picking at a fraying stand of his ridiculously old Fraggle Rock blanket. Mom got it for him when he was four. Things were better when he was four. “Are you mad at me, Mac?” he asks, and, Christ, he sounds so fucking pathetic.

“I’m not mad at you, bro. I just... I just wish you wouldn’t hurt yourself anymore.”

“I can’t...”

“Why?” Mac asks.

Dennis takes another hit, scrubbing a hand down his cheek. “I dunno.”

“Can you please try to explain it to me, Den? Just try. That’s all I’m asking.”

He rolls his eyes. “Look, I don’t wanna talk about this or anything else anymore, okay? I’m tired. I wanna go to bed.”

Dennis snuffs out the joint on his bedside table and curls into a ball away from Mac. Tears swell and escape, and he stifles his sniffles because he wants Mac to shut up and leave him alone. His brain feels fried. His muscles are gooey and limp. He clutches on to Mr. Tibbs for dear life.

The lights turn off eventually, plunging Dennis’ room into darkness. He hears Mac kick his boots off and settle back down in the beanbag chair. He drifts off to blissful silence. He has a couple nightmares, sure, but he’s able to calm himself. He hears Mac’s snores, and it’s enough.

And, thankfully, he wakes up the same way. Sunlight fights to enter his room, but he has these really expensive blackout curtains, so it’s never sunny in here. Dennis rolls over, blinking heavily and wincing slightly at the twinge on his left side. Mac’s asleep in the grey beanbag chair, headphones on and feet bare. He’s snoring softly, and his hair is all fluffy. Huh. He guesses he didn’t notice that Mac didn’t have any hair product in last night.

He feels.. weird. But better. Sleep usually helps when his brain kicks into overdrive, when panic courses through his veins, when all he wants to do is slit his wrists just a little bit more. Dennis tugs at the blankets until they’re covering his chin and dozes off, seeing no real purpose in getting up yet. Mac’s pretty far gone anyway.

A light thump shakes Dennis awake again. Mac’s sitting on the edge of Dennis’ bed with that sheepish look on his face. Dennis almost rolls his eyes, but he decides not to for Mac’s benefit instead of his own. Dennis turns his attention toward the bottle of blue Gatorade resting on his nightstand; he drinks the whole thing immediately. “How’re you feeling?”

Dennis squints and plugs his ears with his fingers for a second, trying to tell his stupid fucking mind that it’s okay, it’s just Mac, and that people can talk without Dennis wanting to kill himself. “’m okay,” he whispers, flinching again. “I’m sorry about l–”

Mac cuts him off. “It’s okay, dude. We don’t have to talk about it.”

Dennis breathes out a sigh of relief. Mac briefly smiles before getting to his feet. “Wait. Don’t go.”

“Just headin’ to the beanbag. That thing’s comfy as shit,” Mac informs.

“Can you... Do you wanna lay in the bed? Y’know, get some actual rest before we egg houses and steal candy?”

Mac gently plops down beside him. Dennis is grateful he keeps his distance, though, because he’ll scream or blackout or something if he’s touched. Mac puts his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling. Dennis watches Mac’s eyes flutter until a soft snore escapes his pink lips.

Dennis burrows deeper inside the comfort and safety of his pillows, his blankets, and his Mac.


	7. Raised by Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Boy sees his father, crushing under the weight of a cross in a passion, where the passion is hate." - Raised by Wolves | U2

**Winter 1993**

“What’re you doing over winter break?” Dennis questions, shouldering his expensive as shit backpack because that’s just how Dennis Reynolds rolls. This bag is awesome; that’s why he makes sure it’s visible at all times. It dangles off a form sculpted to perfection by God himself. He only feels slightly self-conscious as douchebags and whores shove past them both. A massive fucking dick accidentally nudges Dennis’ elbow, and Dennis hisses loudly.

“Watch where you’re goin’, asshole!” Mac shouts. Ever since Dennis broke his arm in three places last week, Mac’s been even more protective of him than usual. “I dunno,” Mac answers, lighting a blunt for the walk home. He stops, cuffing his hands around it so the fierce winter air doesn’t blow it out. Mac takes a puff, head hanging low and staring at the icy ground below.

Mac’s parents don’t really give a shit about him. Dennis knows this. But he’s bored, and he sure as shit doesn’t want to go home right now. Mom and Dad are both there. They got back from Jamaica super fucking early this morning. It was nice not having them home. It was just him, Dee, and whatever maids worked that day. They don’t even know about Dennis crashing his dad’s car into a tree or Dennis’ ridiculous hospital bill or the blue cast encasing his whole arm from fingers and shoulder; he’ll set off security alarms at airports for the rest of his life.

“Well, what’re you doing right now?”

Mac frowns and bites his lower lip. “Um... nothing?”

“Great,” Dennis says. “I’m coming over."

Mac stops him right there. “Why? We’ve never hung out at my place before.”

Dennis shrugs. Mac’s slicked back hair pokes out from under his black beanie. His leather jacket has a new tear right below his left pocket. “Exactly. We always go to my house. You eat my shit and play my games and drink my beer and sleep in my bed, so now I’m gonna do the same thing to you.”

“Whatever, dude. But don’t complain when you see it. Not everyone’s rich as shit like you.”

Dennis rolls his eyes, but he follows Mac regardless. Mac’s house is further from the school than Dennis’, which always leads to super fucking fun walks in the snow, heat, wind, and rain. Usually, Dennis drives him in his own car (which he’s grounded from) or his dad’s car (which he wrecked). Now that Dennis isn’t supposed to drive, and Dee’s threatening to tell Mom and Dad, they walk everywhere they need to go. It isn’t great. In fact, it’s fucking infuriating. But his secret has to stay a secret. Sure, Mom and Dad’ll see his arm, but they don’t need to know about the panic attack or running of the road into a ditch at 60 miles per hour.

They... just don’t need to know.

Mac shrugs off his leather jacket the moment he unlocks the door, hanging it on a hook and toing out of his snowy boots.

“It smells fucking great in here, Mac,” Dennis says while struggling to remove his coat; Mac does it for him. It smells like cinnamon and cloves and fucking Christmas even though there isn’t a tree or any decorations in sight. Huh. Weird.

“Yeah, I guess,” Mac mumbles. “Take off your shoes, bro.”

“I don’t make you do that at my house.”

Mac shrugs. “Tough shit. My house. My rules.”

Dennis does it eventually. He scowls as he kicks them off, not bothering with untying them because he may’ve sort of hurt his ribs in the accident. There’s bruising around his hips and ribcage. It aches, but not as much as watching Mac flea the car with a bloody nose and two black eyes. Not as much as watching Mac almost break down in tears. Mac never cries.

Okay. Stop. Quit thinking about it.

“Jesus, it’s like spotless in here, dude,” Dennis points out, clearing his throat and roaming around the living room like he owns the place. The TV screen has a slight crack in the upper right corner. The walls are coated with thick, messy layers of paint to combat against peeling. “Your mom must be some sorta neat freak.”

“Nope,” Mac replies simply, plopping down on the sofa. Dennis sits until he’s shoulder to shoulder with him. Dennis scratches his neck; this stupid fucking sling itches and hurts his back, and he’s suddenly feeling the three sleepless nights slamming into him all at once. “Den, stop, man. That’s gotta hurt.” Dennis tugs and grumbles and fusses until Mac coaxes his arm free of the horrible contraption. He places a couch pillow between his arm and his stomach for padding.

He doesn’t tell Mac he can do things on his own because it’s nice having Mac take care of him.

“Your dad?” he asks, even though, Jesus Christ, does he already know the answer to that one.

“Can we not talk about my parents? Let’s just, like, play video games or some shit.”

Dennis ignores him. “How can your couch be this fucking clean?” he asks, almost in disbelief, as if his poor friend Mac doesn’t know how to get off his ass and clean a Goddamn couch.

“I like the house to be clean,” Mac says.

“Yeah, me too.”

“But not everyone has maids, Dennis. Some people do all this themselves.”

“Sure, but parents usually play a part in the whole cleanliness routine. What? Your mom still tells you to brush your teeth every morning and night? Daddy reminds you to wash your balls?”

Mac’s cheeks flame red. Dennis almost bites his bottom lip. He’s egging it on on purpose. He doesn’t know why he’s like this, what possesses him to be such a dick, but he can’t take it back once the words escape his lips.

“Shut the fuck up, Dennis, you rich, punkass, piece of shit. My dad’s in jail, okay? He isn’t around anymore. And my mom? My mom works overnight at a gas station just to keep the fucking electricity on. She doesn’t have time to clean and make sure the house isn’t falling apart.”

“Dude, I –”

Mac gets to his feet. He pops his knuckles. “No. I’m tired of this. What kinda fucking friend are you anyway?”

Dennis holds up his one working hand, signaling for Mac to be quiet. Mac frowns and clams up immediately, and Dennis relishes in the power. “I know your dad’s in jail, dipshit. You only mention it a thousand times a day. I know all about your chain-smoking, alcoholic mother too. I was just busting your balls.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Mac whispers.

Dennis stands up too. “Oh yeah? I don’t know anything about you?”

“You’re always too concerned with yourself.”

“Your full and real name, Mac, is Ronald Herbert McDonald, which, by the way, is still only slightly worse than Mac. Your mom called you Ronnie til you were three; you think that’s when she stopped loving you. You’re allergic to strawberries and swell up like a fucking balloon if you even touch one. You like starfish. You hate The Muppets; they freak you out. Your dad went to jail for the first time when you were five for selling cocaine. You met Charlie in first grade. You met my sister before you met me. You listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers way too often. You –”

Mac sinks to the clean carpet, resting his back against the couch. Dennis sees the tears swell in his eyes and sees when Mac tries to blink them away.

“I pay attention,” Dennis says. “But I didn’t know you were so... into things being clean. It makes sense, though.”

Mac blinks. “What do you mean?”

Dennis shrugs, settling down on the floor beside Mac. “Your life is shit, dude. You gotta control it somehow. You clean. I smoke. It’s all the same.”

“Can... Can we just not talk about this anymore? You’ve fucked with my head enough for one day?”

Dennis gulps, sucking in a deep breath while nodding. “Sure, dude,” he whispers, and, holy shit, it doesn’t even sound like him. He doesn’t sound like Dennis Reynolds.

“Awesome. Great. Thanks.”

Too far. He went too far. Why does he always have to push buttons like this? It’s fucking revolting. He’s 17, for Christ’s sake. He doesn’t like talking about his parents, about his past, about what happened to him, so why would it be any different for Mac?

They spend the rest of the afternoon at Mac’s house in near silence, watching MTV and lighting up joint after joint while guzzling a case of cheap beer. Dennis sprawls out on the couch, lightheaded and sore, while Mac relaxes in his mom’s threadbare recliner. It’s almost peaceful, but Dennis can feel that tension in the air. He keeps his mouth shut.

“I’m gonna go crash, man,” Mac murmurs at 2:30 AM.

Dennis yawns and nods. He makes no effort to move.

“Sooo can you, like, leave?”

Dennis whines. “It’s really dark out, Mac. I’m tired.”

He hears Mac exhale loudly. “Fine. But you can’t sleep out here. Mom’ll be back around seven.”

Mac guides Dennis to his bedroom. It’s small, but he has a full-sized bed, karate posters on the walls, and an extensive CD collection. There’s a couple of crosses on the walls; Dennis rolls his eyes and sinks into the mattress. There aren’t any sheets, just a comforter. His arm is on fucking fire, pain burrowing deep inside the bone. He closes his eyes and breathes through it.

“Sit up for a sec, Den,” he hears.

It falls on deaf ears until Mac flicks his cheek.

Mac helps him put that stupid fucking sling back on, settling a pillow beneath his elbow. It relieves some of the pressure. Dennis’ eyes are quick to fill with tears.

“I’m sorry, Mac,” he whispers. “About earlier. I’m a fucking dick.”

Mac collapses into bed, clicking the lamp off. Dennis can smell the cinnamon on his breath. Can feel Mac’s bare feet on his shins. Can almost taste the blunt he just smoked. “You are a fucking dick, Den. But you’re my dick.”

Dennis chuckles softly. “I bet I’m an 12 out of 10 down there then.”

“Gross. You’re nasty, man.”

It’s quiet for a few moments. Dennis rolls over until he’s on his left side, not exactly being careful of his barely mended together arm and not exactly caring either. He scoots until their foreheads touch.

“Is this okay?” Dennis asks, voice punctuating this cold December night.

He’s flush against Mac; Mac nods in the darkness.

Maybe Dennis presses his lips against Mac’s.

Maybe Mac doesn’t pull away.

Maybe, just maybe, they hardcore make out until the sun rises.

There’s a spark of electricity, of pure, raw, unaltered energy that Dennis feels for the first time in his life. Fuck, Mac is a great kisser. Like the dude has some killer moves. Dennis cards his fingers through Mac’s gelled hair. Mac bites Dennis’ bottom lip. He doesn’t... He isn’t... Dennis isn’t sure how this is fucking possible. He’s happy? He thinks. He’s still weird with emotions and can’t really feel them, but he thinks he’s feeling them right now?

Dennis tries not to blush when Mac plants several kisses in his hair.

It’s new. It’s amazing. It’s nearly indescribable.

Mac. It’s Mac.


	8. Even Better Than the Real Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Give me one last chance, and I'm gonna make you sing. Give me half a chance to ride on the waves that you bring." - Even Better Than the Real Thing | U2

**Spring 1994**

“It smells like shit,” Dennis says.

Mac rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Yeah, no fucking shit, Den. It’s a zoo. There are, like, animals everywhere.”

“I’ve never been to the zoo before!” Charlie exclaims, rubbing his hands together excitedly. His face red and hair ruffled, he looks twelve years old. Dennis scoffs internally. Charlie’s stupid as shit, but he’s small. Skinny. He doesn’t really have an ounce of fat on him. Dennis can feel his love handles rubbing against his long sleeved shirt. Gross. He’s so fucking gross.

Dee rolls her eyes. “You’ve never been anywhere before!”

“He’s been in your mom’s asshole!” Mac retorts, high fiving Charlie.

Mac tries to high five Dennis; Dennis’ eyes narrow. “I will gouge your eyes out. I swear to God,” he murmurs. “I can’t believe you actually paid to get into this place.”

Dennis’ blood boils as Mac rubs the back of his neck. “Well, about that...”

He rubs his hand over his face. Dammit. “You stole from my secret stash, didn’t you?”

Mac shrugs, but it’s obvious he’s guilty. “It isn’t exactly a secret, Den.”

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees. “I took 20 bucks yesterday to buy this sweet shirt.” He motions to a bright blue t-shirt, adorned with a walrus wearing sunglasses.

“It is a pretty sweet shirt, bro,” Dennis agrees. “But, still, Mac, you’re an asshole.”

“It isn’t stealing. It’s called ‘borrowing,’ dude. Open up a dictionary once in a while,” Mac says. “Plus, you need to get out for a bit. Y’know, actually enjoy spring break in the outdoors and shit.”

Dee nods, and, fucking motherfucker, Dennis will brain her if she opens her stupid whore mouth. “Yeah, you’ve been especially mopey lately.”

“Oh my God. You dumb dumb bitch. I will cut you. I will eat your babies! I will tear you into a thousand tiny pieces! I will –”

Dennis feels the stares. There’s tension laced throughout the entrance of the zoo. He doesn’t like it when people look at him like this, like he’s crazy. He isn’t crazy. Today just isn’t a great day. Mac woke him up around seven AM, which is way too fucking early. Charlie puked in his blanket nest on the floor. Dee’s back brace squeaks shrilly, and Dennis wants to fucking punch her to the moon. It’s so Goddamn irritating and grating on his ears.

“Can we just go home?” Dennis whines, staring right at Mac.

Mac doesn’t budge. “No way, dude. We’re staying. Plus, it’d be a waste of, like, $100, and we’re already here.”

“$100?!” Dennis questions, rubbing his forehead, voice climbing higher and higher. “Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of zoo –”

“Stop screaming, asshole! You’re scaring people!” Dee exclaims.

Dennis crosses his arms over his chest. A cold swish of air freezes his core. The base of his neck tingles uncomfortably. “Fine. Fuck. Whatever. We could’ve stayed inside and watched Animal Planet if you wanted to see animals so Goddamn badly.”

Charlie bounces on his heels, wiggling and jerking like a Goddamn lunatic. He’s smiling maniacally. Dennis knows that look; Charlie wants to fuck shit up. Without warning, Charlie grabs Dee’s elbow, ushering her and her fucking back brace away from Mac and Dennis. With them gone, Dennis breathes out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. He tries to relax, loosening his shoulders and closing his eyes momentarily.

“We can go if you –”

Dennis shakes his head, fingers tracing over Mac’s bicep. “No. No. I’m sorry, dude.”

“So you wanna stay?”

He knows he’ll regret this, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, Mac. Let’s stay.”

Mac smiles giddily. He looks younger like this, eyes softened by sunglasses and early afternoon sunlight, hand reaching for Dennis. “Holy shit! Are those penguins?”

Dennis doesn’t complain when Mac takes his hand, tangling their fingers together before bounding off to the penguin exhibit. Once they’re inside, Dennis starts shivering in his jeans and thin long sleeved shirt. He left his jacket in the car, and Dee threw a fucking bitch fit over some random, meaningless shit that he doesn’t care about, so he didn’t have the chance to grab it. He feels Mac drape something soft over his arms.

He glances at him skeptically, eyebrows high.

“Just wear it, Den. You’ll get sick if you keep getting all cold like that.”

It’s Mac’s massively beat up Jurassic Park hoodie. The logo’s faded to shit. It’s dark grey and smells like two indistinct colognes. Dennis wakes up and falls asleep to that scent almost every morning and every night. It’s absolutely Mac. Dennis purses his lips. He doesn’t need this stupid hoodie. He can handle himself. But he tugs it on anyway.

“You know what’s weird?” Dennis says. “My parents are loaded as shit, and they never took me and Dee to the zoo. Rosalita or Josephina always did it instead.”

Mac shrugs. “Maybe they thought they were above it.”

“True. But still. I sometimes wonder what it would be like with parents who gave a shit.”

Mac nods. “I hear you there, bro,” he says. “But what about you and me? We can have fun here too.”

Dennis smiles; it’s the first genuine smile he’s given anyone all week. “We’ll have tons of fun, baby boy.”

He almost leans in. He almost kisses Mac sweetly. He almost cards his fingers through Mac’s soft brown hair, just like he does when they’re alone.

Mac and Dennis exit the penguin exhibit and start trekking around the zoo. The sun pokes in and out of from the clouds. They’re wearing sunglasses to protect their eyes. Dennis is pale, – no amount of tanning helps, so he gave up a long time ago – but Mac is ridiculously bronzed in his Dicknose t-shirt that still, miraculously, has sleeves. Dennis bites his cheek so hard it bleeds just a little.

He’s so much more than perfect.

Christ. He’s getting soft.

“Turtles are great, dude,” Mac says, leaning over the ledge of the Galapagos tortoise exhibit.

Dennis nods. “I read something about a tortoise named Jonathan the other day. He’s old as shit and, apparently, gay.”

“Gay?” Mac questions, eyebrows burrowing as the word slips from his lips.

“Yep. Looks like Jonathan figures all good things come in the ass. His lover is apparently remarkable.”

Dennis smiles again because, holy shit, he’s grinning and laughing and joking, and it’s weird. This is weird. “I’m totally Jonathan, Den.”

“You just admitted that I am better at having sex than you are.”

“YOU ARE NOT BETTER AT HAVING SEX THAN ME! I WILL –”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Dennis soothes, gently grabbing Mac’s cheeks. He’s been doing this lately when Mac gets upset or worked up; needless to say, it happens often. “Calm down, Mac.”

Mac takes in a deep breath and nods. Dennis wants to pat his ass as they walk to the food court, but he refrains himself, even if Mac’s butt looks really nice in the tight, figure flattering jeans Dennis picked out for him. Mac holds his hand, though, so that’s good enough for now. Dennis buys them one of those souvenir cups, filling it with icy water that feels amazing on his warm, dry throat. They split a ridiculously overpriced soft pretzel. Dennis brushes all of the salt off before taking two nibbles. Mac eats the rest gleefully, telling Dennis he’s eating “a banana or a fruit cup or some shit” when they get back to Dennis’ house.

Mac and Dennis explore the entire zoo and end up staying until they’re kicked out for trying to steel a meerkat.

It’s okay, though, because they’ve walked the place twice. Dennis’ feet are killing him, and he feels a twinge from the late March sun on his ears. They walk back to his car hand in hand to wait for Dee and Charlie, sweat dripping from their brows and sipping on shitty souvenir zoo water to stay hydrated.

“Hey,” Dennis says softly as they sit on the hood of the car. “Thank you.”

Mac grins but still asks, “For what?”

“This. For getting me out of the house. It was fun.”

“I knew you’d love it!” Mac exclaims, wrapping his arms around Dennis’ waist. “I’m glad you had a good time.”

Dennis swallows thickly. He... He isn’t sure how much longer he can deny this. Sure, he and Mac make out in the safe darkness of their bedrooms. They’ve sucked each other off and given hand jobs before. Dennis isn’t sure he’s ready for sex; the thing with Ms. Klinsky fucks with his brain so much more than he ever thought possible. But Mac’s so against being gay – or simply whoever or whatever he is – that they never get further than that.

But Dennis doesn’t want to rock the boat. Not after such a great day. Those are becoming harder and harder for Dennis to have as his mind melts and disconnects more often than not. Dennis can’t sour this. He’s pretty sure he’ll die if he does.

Mac’s the only person keeping him here at this point, after all. Without Mac, he’s sure he would’ve burned himself alive or cut his wrists too deeply.

“We should go on a vacation before I leave for school,” Dennis says softly; he doesn’t make eye contact with Mac. They graduate in two and a half months, and Dennis leaves for college after Labor Day. Sure, they have about five months together, but he wants to make memories. They have tons of memories already. They watch movies and sleep entangled with each other on Dennis’ thick mattress almost every night. Dennis does Mac’s make up. Mac will style Dennis’ hair to perfection, just like he did for eight weeks straight after Dennis broke his arm a couple months ago. Mac brings him vanilla ice cream in bed. Mac knows about Dennis’ breakdowns. He knows that Dennis is an asshole. He knows that Dennis is a God.

Mac nods excitedly. He’s such a puppy. “That sounds great, dude! Where should we go? Ooh, I know! We could go to the chocolate factory!”

“That Hershey’s place?” Dennis scoffs. “No way. I was thinking like the Jersey Shore or the Poconos, but that wouldn’t be as much fun in the summer. Maybe the west coast? I can steal from my dad, and we can have an epic road trip.”

“We’ll go on an adventure!” Mac agrees. “Dibs on being Beavis!”

Dennis’ face scrunches. “I am so not Butt-Head. Pick a different dynamic duo.”

“Laverne and Shirley?” Mac questions.

“That’s better.”

Eventually, Charlie and Dee are escorted out by security. Charlie’s covered in... cat fur? Dee’s brace is missing chunks. It looks like something bit the fucking thing? Oh well. He doesn’t care. Charlie and Dee ramble to each other in the backseat. Charlie offers both Dennis and Mac a piece of a chicken tender from his pocket. Mac eats Dennis’.

Dennis nearly conks out on the drive home. Mac keeps him from nodding off and slamming into another car on the highway. Dennis blinks heavily as he grips the steering wheel, the world blurring around him. Mac points out every license plate he sees; he ends up saying ‘Philly’ instead of ‘Pennsylvania’ at least 50 times before they pull into the driveway. It’s adorable.

Charlie leaps inside, apparently having caught his second wind. He heads straight for the fridge. Dee locks herself in her room. Mac sprawls out on Dennis’ bed while Dennis showers, rinsing the sweat and grim from his body. He tugs Mac’s hoodie back on for safekeeping. Mac’s barefoot and back in sweatpants. Mac pats the mattress; Dennis pads over in his boxers.

Without thinking, Dennis curls up to where his cheek is resting on Mac’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, mesmerized by how alive Mac is.

Mac plants tiny kisses in Dennis’ damp hair. Dennis melts inside.

They don’t make it very long before Dennis is pressed impossibly closer, rocked to a dreamless sleep by Mac’s fingers and snores.


	9. Where the Streets Have No Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The city's a flood, and our love turns to rust. We're beaten and blown by the wind, trampled into dust. I'll show you a place high on the desert plain where the streets have no name." - Where the Streets Have No Name | U2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Is anyone reading these still? Is there anything you'd like to see in the upcoming chapters, specifically as Dennis navigates college? Thank you! :)

**Summer 1994**

The jagged, craggy mountains brood and loom over them. The heaven-touching summit of the mountain is drenched in brilliant, explosive light. It makes Dennis feel terrifyingly small, but, still, it leaves him in a trance that isn’t worth breaking. So they sit in on a ledge overlooking the view, silence soaking into Dennis’ bones. They sip slowly on their beers, transfixed in the illusion of life. Being here, right here and right now, is almost cosmic, out of this universe.

Dennis yawns, muscles aching from a day of hiking and right ankle a little swollen in his boot. The thin, exposed chill of night seeps through the balmy mid-August day. They have a nice hotel reservation, and the Jeep’s only 50 feet away, but that’s a lifetime to Dennis. He glances over at Mac, legs dangling toward the abyss and leaning his forearms on a railing. His downward slanted eyes fight to stay open. His t-shirt’s sticky with sweat. He smells like iron and yeast.

It gets dark surprisingly fast, and mosquitos are using them as their buffet for the night. Dennis scoots closer to Mac, burying his head in his shoulder and inhaling deeply. They should’ve brought a tent or something because the hotel seems so agonizingly far. This is easily the most exercise either of them have gotten in ages, but it is a nice change of pace from drinking and smoking all the time; although, Dennis isn’t opposed to either of those things right now. But the Jeep’s over there, collecting dust from the gravel road, and they’re here. Dennis can’t bring it in himself to move. He’s afraid everything will fall to pieces if he does.

“These stars are really awesome, dude,” Mac whispers. Dennis loves Mac’s voice. “We don’t get stars like this in Philly.”

Dennis nods, but he doesn’t say anything. The energy fades from his body quickly. He hasn’t eaten since lunch. He isn’t hungry, but Mac’s been trying this new schedule with him, and they’re behind on dinner by about three hours now. Dennis hates that his stomach notices, but he likes that Mac supports him and looks out for him and doesn’t push him to eat everything, just something, even if it’s only crackers and ginger ale or half a turkey sandwich or a peeled apple.

“We should go back to the hotel. I’m all gross, and I wanna crash.”

Mac goes to move, but Dennis clings to his arm. No. Not this. Not yet. Mac sighs, but he wraps his arm around Dennis’ shoulders regardless. Dennis leaves for Penn in three weeks. Dennis leaves Mac in three weeks. The thought of being without him actually fucking hurts. For a long time, he thought he didn’t have feelings, that he couldn’t express himself without rage or panic, but Mac’s here, and Mac makes everything better. He’s Dennis’ lifeline. It’s why they’re on this road trip. Dennis doesn’t want to leave Mac, and Mac doesn’t want Dennis to leave. They’re trying to make as many memories as possible; Dennis knows they’ll need them while he’s gone.

The wind stirs, awakening the trees and bringing the earth to live. Dennis listens to frogs croak and bugs buzz in the distance.

“We gotta go. You’re falling asleep, Den...”

Dennis shakes his head. “Five more minutes...”

“Nope. Sorry, bud. C’mon. Up.”

Mac helps him swing his legs around and plant them on the gravel. He’s wobbly and shaky as Mac holds his hand on the way to the Jeep. His ankle sore, he hops in the passenger seat, squishing his cheek to the window. Mac makes him buckle his seatbelt before they drive away. Dennis keeps his eyes on the escaping mountain view before the city lights blind them. He whines louder than he means to – he can’t help it – when they get to their hotel.

He’s sure they’re a sight for sore eyes as they hobble through the lobby. The front desk lady shakes her head at them. An entire day’s worth of grime on their skin, Dennis knows he doesn’t look his best. This doesn’t represent him, though. Usually, he’d get worked up about his appearance, but a shower and shared mattress with Mac are calling his name. He ignores the hippo lady of the lobby and leans on Mac in the elevator.

The moment they lock their door, Mac ushers him to a chair. “How’s your foot?”

Dennis shrugs. “Hurts. ‘s not too bad though...”

Mac kneels down and starts untying Dennis’ shoelaces; he’s too sleepy to protest, to complain that he’s not a baby, to reassure that he can take care of himself. Mac’s normally spotless, clean nails are caked in dirt. There’s a scratch on his forearm that looks irritated. Dennis is about to say something about it when Mac works his foot out of his boot. Dennis bites his bottom lip and runs a hand through his hair, inhaling so sharply he’s sure he sprains his lung.

“Alright. Hopefully the swelling goes down by morning, and you’ll feel more better.” Mac stands, popping his back and rummaging through their shared, oversized suitcase Dennis stole from his dad. He throws a pair of boxers and baggy t-shirt in Dennis’ direction. “You can have the first shower, bro.”

Mac escorts him to the bathroom. Dennis shifts his weight to his left foot as he lathers in his honey and passion fruit shampoo. Fuck, the water’s so warm and engulfs his body like a fuzzy blanket. He’s so ready for bed. He feels weird and vulnerable and not exactly like himself. He hasn’t even raised his voice today, which is fucking strange. But he’s always calmer when he’s alone with Mac. He doesn’t want to yell, obviously, but it’s such a part of his personality that he feels off when he’s quiet or peaceful for too long. He’s still here. He’s still human. He’s capable of emotions and acting on them. It’s nice. It’s refreshing.

After rinsing his body with lavender scented suds, he towel dries his hair, tugs on his clothes, and limps until he’s safely in bed. Fuck his nightly routine. He wants to sleep, and this mattress is like heaven on his sore back. The AC blasts, igniting the fury Dennis’ muscles unleash when he’s cold. He’s like an old man. Poor circulation, he thinks. But Mac’s a savior and a saint. He elevates Dennis’ foot with a fluffy pillow, puts a baggy filled with ice and wrapped in cloth on his ankle, and yanks the covers up to Dennis’ chin.

The small, sweet kiss planted on his forehead isn’t lost on him.

Dennis drifts off while Mac showers. Mac comes back smelling like his shampoo and his body wash. Mac shifts until his face is hidden in Dennis’ shoulder, peppering more kisses on his skin. Dennis wants to reciprocate, tell Mac how much him and this trip means to him, but Mac starts snoring and drooling moments later. Dennis smiles and lets sleep pull him under.

 

* * *

 

They checkout two minutes before 10 AM, before Dennis has to shell out extra money to stay. They had a hard time getting going this morning. Once Mac started lazily tracing his fingers down Dennis’ chest, Dennis knew he was a dead man. So they fooled around under the covers and glanced at the clock at 9:34. They dressed quickly. Dennis styled his hair while Mac threw their dirty stuff in plastic bags and tossed them in the trunk of the Jeep.

Now that their four day exploration of Colorado is over, they’re heading to California. Mac talks about summer, sun, booze, and babes, but, honestly, Dennis wouldn’t mind just tanning out on the beach with Mac. He doesn’t really care about anyone else. Mac drives, carefully and focused, because Dennis’ ankle hurts. Being cramped up in a car for several hours doesn’t exactly help. Sun beats down heavily, and Dennis stretches in the passenger seat, trying to find a comfy spot.

“Wanna stop for the day?” Mac questions the moment they pass through Colorado and into Utah. They haven’t been on the road long.

Dennis shakes his head, clenching his jaw. “No.”

He isn’t going to lie; there’s this overwhelming sensation inching up his spine. His heart feels swollen. He... He feels like he’s going to die.

“Oookay,” Mac breathes out. “Wanna smoke?”

Dennis’ eyes immediately widen. It would help his ankle. Maybe even help the impending doom swallowing him whole. “Got anything loaded up?”

Mac fishes around in the glove compartment while Dennis reaches over and keeps his hand on the wheel. He pulls out a big ass blunt. “Rolled it while you were in the bathroom,” Mac informs, lighting it and inhaling. “You take fucking forever in there, bro.”

Dennis hits it moments later, coughing and wiggling. “It takes time to look this good.”

“Well, you do look good, so I guess you’re right about that.”

Fuck, is he blushing? Please tell him he isn’t blushing.

He’s fucking blushing. Goddammit, Mac.

This summer has flashed before Dennis’ eyes. Even though they’ve spent every moment together, it doesn’t feel like enough. Dennis isn’t sure it’s remotely possible for it to be enough. He’s always cold, even in the middle of heat waves, but Mac warms him in ways unimaginable. Mac just... He’s the first guy besides Tom Brady to really make Dennis feel something. Mac should consider that a huge fucking compliment because Dennis Reynolds doesn’t internally admit that about just anyone. Fuck. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to go.

He isn’t used to being alone. He’s always had Dee. He’s been buds with Mac and Charlie for over two years now. He spends almost all of his time with Mac. He isn’t in his own head as much. It works. This works. Dennis eats. Dennis doesn’t carve up his skin nearly as much. Even if he does, Mac’s there to bandage him up and hold him until his God Hole quits fucking with him. Penn is an entirely different universe.

“Will you...” Dennis clears his throat, voice shaking. “Will you visit me?”

Mac glances over at him. “I’m right here, Den.”

“No. No. I just... I mean, like when I leave. When I go to Penn, will you visit me?”

He almost asks, “Will you remember me?” He decides against it.

Panic and dread course through his veins. The Jeep’s furiously hot. Sweat pools around the collar of Dennis’ (Mac’s) t-shirt. He pinches the creamy white skin on his arms. His breath catches in his tight throat. Fuck. He can’t. He can’t do this. Tears swell in his eyes. The blunt dangles from his fingertips. His stomach swims as he blearily watches Mac pull over.

“Hey,” Mac says, his hands warm on Dennis’ cheeks. “What’s going on up there?”

Dennis melts when Mac wipes the tears away with his thumb. “I-It’s stupid...”

“It isn’t stupid. Nothing you could ever say to me is stupid. Talk to me, Den.”

He exhales. He unbuckles and thrusts himself into Mac’s arms. The center console jabs his ribs. “I don’t wanna go...” he whispers.

Mac rubs his back; he kisses Dennis’ ear. “I don’t want you to go either, bro. But you have to. You’re so smart, Den. You gotta do this for yourself.”

“I-I...I can stay here!” Dennis squeaks out. “I can stay, and we can hang out all the time, and nothing will have to change.”

“Me and you both know that isn’t gonna work.”

Dennis whines into Mac’s neck. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do. Besides, you’ve been looking forward to Penn for, like, years. It’s okay to get hot feet or whatever, but don’t throw this away, Den.”

Dennis pulls away briefly. He smiles through the tears. “’Hot feet?’” he questions.

“Or, like, lukewarm feet. Whatever. You’re so missin’ the point!”

Dennis chuckles and goes back to safety, into Mac’s arms. “You promise you’ll come see me?”

“Totally. I’m not just gonna disappear on you, dude.”

Deep down, Dennis knows this.

 

* * *

 

California is crowded and way busier than Philly, but the sand feels magnificent between Dennis’ toes. Mac wrapped his ankle before bounding out of the Reynolds’ beachside condo. He sheepishly came back though, taking most of Dennis’ weight. They set up two umbrellas and two folding patio chairs as far away from tourists as possible. Dennis pops off his shirt and grins as Mac does the same. His eagle tattoo stands out proudly against freckly, tan skin.

Dennis leans back, folding his hands behind his head and soaking up the summer sun. He dozes off to the smell of Mac smoking a joint. He drifts away to the sounds of ocean waves and seagulls and Mac flipping the pages of the motorcycle magazine they picked up at a gas station in Nevada.

“Scoot over, Den,” he hears.

He squints, warily opening his eyes. He moves without a second thought. Apparently, these are big enough for two people. Either that or Mac just missed him.

Dennis listens to Mac hum from beside him. Their bare skin nestled against one another, Mac tangles his fingers in Dennis’ hair and kisses his forehead.


	10. Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Listen to me now. I need you to know. You don't have to go it alone. And it's you when I look in the mirror. And it's you when I don't pick up the phone." - Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own | U2

**Fall 1994**

The ghost of Mac’s lips haunts him. His body. His mind. His soul... if he even has a soul. It swallows him whole, leaving him breathless, aching, quaking... Mac’s lips are soft. Sometimes, they taste like cheap peppermint chapstick; Dennis really likes that. Mac kisses him with passion and purpose, like he’d rip apart at the seams if he did it any other way. Mac would totally fall apart without him, but Dennis is strong. Dennis is resilient. He’s smart. He’s taking this in stride.

He hasn’t seen Mac in three weeks.

It’s not like it matters. He’s laying chum all over campus. He’s banging chicks. He’s rocking the shit out of his classes. He’s scouting out lucky fraternities because he must grace them with his presence. It’s nothing like Philly, but it’s for him. He doesn’t need anyone or anything; he never has. It’s just that sometimes he gets these urges. He longs to see Mac, touch Mac, hear Mac. He misses their morning make out session and getting drunk by the Reynolds’ massive pool and the way Mac says he’s name when he’s about to fall asleep. He misses the lingering touches and how Mac rubs his thumb across Dennis’ knuckles and the two PM coffee runs.

They used to have so much time together.

But Dennis thrives no matter what, so not being able to get ahold of Mac for 23 straight days is obsolete. It means nothing to him. In fact, it irritates and infuriates him to no end. Mac helped him move into his dorm, bought them dinner, and smoked three joints with Dennis before he went back to Philly. Mac promised to call Dennis when he got there. There’s a heavy sense of dread weighing him down, forcing him underwater and filling his lungs. He hasn’t spoken to Mom or Dad or Charlie either. The only person he’s seen is Dee, which is fucking stupid as shit since they live on the same campus but in different dorms.

Fuck, he just wants to know Mac is okay.

Dennis rolls over, nose touching the wall because this twin bed is too fucking small. The sheets singe his skin. His (Mac’s) hoodie feels like on fire, soaking his body in lighter fluid. His roommate, Josh or Joe or Jason or some shit, keeps blaring his Metallica garbage, keeps chewing with his mouth open, keeps cackling loudly to whoever the fuck he’s talking to on the phone. Dennis covers his ears. He takes a deep breath and holds it in. Maybe he can suffocate himself.

His roommate’s an asshole. He stays up too late and smokes cigarettes in their room. Dennis smokes, sure, but he at least has the common fucking decency to do it outside where normal Goddamn considerate people smoke. He walks around shirtless, flaunting his body like he’s hot shit, but, really, he’s got man boobs and a flabby stomach and so much fucking back hair. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. Revolting. How did he get such a loser as a roommate? Do they not know he’s Dennis Reynolds? Do they not know his parents are fucking ridiculously rich?

Does this prick not know Dennis is a god?

He’s half-asleep when he hears rummaging, even through ears closed up with his index fingers. Shivers sliver up and down his spine. The base of his skull tingles. He feels something coming. Panic washes over him. He wants to sleep. He needs to sleep. Darkness. Silence. Peace. Mac always makes sure Dennis has those things because he barely sleeps on his best days as it is. Mac will rub his back or suck him off or give him messy a hand job just to help him relax.

The light clicks on. Dennis can see it from under his thick comforter. He scowls.

“Dude, can I use your toothbrush?” his roommate (what the actual fuck is his name?) asks. “I lost mine.”

He shoots straight up in bed, eyes narrow. “You lost yours?”

“Yeah, bro. You fuckin’ deaf or somethin’?”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m not letting you borrow my toothbrush. That’s fucking disgusting, and I have zero idea where your mouth has been.”

His roommate takes a step closer. Dennis’ heart pounds, but he shows nothing on this face. Honestly, this dude’s 6’4” to Dennis’ 5’10” and could probably fucking whip his ass, but he doesn’t need to know that. “My mouth’s been in your mom, you fag.”

“Nice,” Dennis mumbles. “Good to know your expensive as shit college education is doing you justice. Fuckin’ 7th grade ass insults. What a fucking joke.”

His roommate must be a lot more psychotic than Dennis’ dossier suggests because he’s choking him out and slamming his fist into Dennis’ cheek in five seconds flat; he’ll have to jot that down later. But Dennis has experience with getting wailed on. He has experience with ignoring shit like this and letting it wash off of him without freaking out. Sure, Dennis can fight back, but staring directly into his fucking roommate’s eyes with no emotion is eventually what makes him stand down. Dennis keeps staring, blood dripping down his face and into his mouth, as the prick stumbles into the hallway, loudly proclaiming he kicked Dennis’ ass and that he has somewhere to be. Uh huh. Sure. Fuck him. Dennis won, and he fucking knows it. That’s why he ran.

Dennis wins. He always wins.

He stretches nonchalantly, cheek aching and neck sore. His breath comes out in quick, wheezing gasps. He winces as his wool-socked feet hit the freezing floor below. Dennis bounds into the bathroom. It’s gross and only has a toilet and sink. He shares it with his roommate and two other dudes. It’s the highlight of his fucking college experience thus far, obviously. Dennis dabs his broken skin with toilet paper. He grabs the pocketknife stashed in his shaving kit, sinks to the floor, and rolls up his sleeves, eyes swelling stupidly.

Fuck. Fuck this. Fuck him. Fuck Mac.

Dennis traces up and down his left forearm like he’s writing with a ballpoint pen. He doesn’t feel anything other than a cooling, calming energy zap him like lightning. It’s freedom. Dennis floats away, head high in the clouds and mind spinning. He eventually runs out of space there, but doesn’t recognize it until his entire wrist is eerily red, and switches to his right. It’s a lot less elegant since he’s not left-handed. But the skin on his right forearm is practically free of scars and burns and imperfections; it’s the perfect canvass for his creations.

He’s a god. Dennis is a god. He doesn’t need idiotic roommates or his parents or chicks to bang or his sister or people to hang with or Mac. He doesn’t need Mac.

Dennis hisses when he presses the blade into his skin too harshly. Blood immediately starts flowing, and Dennis watches, mesmerized by how quick it is. Shit. Fuck. It could all be over in a matter of minutes if he lets it. He can stop his life right this second. He can get rid of not fucking feeling anything and feeling too fucking much indefinitely. Blood oozes and drains onto Dennis’ plaid pajama pants, soaking his right thigh and dripping fucking everywhere.

Shit. Snap out of it.

Fucking Goddammit.

Dennis hastily reaches up for a towel, wraps it around his forearm, and leans his head against the bathroom door. His roommate’s back; he can hear his shitty music and maniacal chewing and absurdly loud talking, and it’s enough to make Dennis immensely queasy. He squeezes his eyes shut so hard he almost throws up. It’s as if he can feel the blood vessels and veins and muscles burst, tear open, every-fucking-where in his body.

Mac.

He would know how to stop this.

Dennis pulls out a roll of gauze stored in the same shaving kit, along with antiseptic gel. His left arm is oozing, but it’s starting to clot, so it’s easy enough to wrap messily. His right arm is a totally different story; he thinks he may’ve nicked an artery or some shit. It won’t stop gushing. But it’s nice. He likes it. Dennis harshly squeezes the tender flesh before sloppily slathering on the antibiotic and mummifying his skin. The bandages are soaked in seconds. Dennis moves past it, rolling down the oversized hoodie sleeves and hoisting himself into a standing position.

The room wavers. His head spins. His body sways.

Whatever.

He washes his hands, stashes his shit under the sink, throws away the towel, and fixes his hair. The bruise on his cheek is streaked red and purple; his lip’s busted open. He’ll fix those in the morning. He opens the door with his head held high, vision blurring as he marches toward his bed. He can feel his roommate staring, and, for fucking once, he stops chewing and talking on the phone at the same time. Dennis slips on an old pair of Nikes and his coat.

“Um, dude? You’re not gonna, like, go kill yourself, are you?” he asks, voice wavering.

Dennis glances over his shoulder, shrugging as if it means nothing because it does mean nothing. “No, dipshit.”

“Okay. Good. Sorry for losing my temper and beating your face.”

Dennis turns the doorknob. He flips his hood up. “Yeah.”

The hallway is dimly lit. There’s an OA sitting at the ‘front desk’ of the ‘lobby,’ flipping through a magazine and bobbing along to whatever the fuck’s playing on her Walkman. Dennis goes past her without any trouble. He exhales loudly when the October air pelts his face. There’s a warm spot sopping through his hoodie and soaking into his coat. Shit. He’s dizzy and thirsty, and, fuck, he should probably get stitches or something, but nothing can detour him from his mission.

There’s a payphone and a bench by the recreation center. Dennis pays, dials, and listens to it ring. Desperation clings to him like a wet blanket. But he doesn’t feel anything at the same time. It’s weird. It’s fucked up. He doesn’t know why he’s like this or why he’s such an idiot or why Mac isn’t answering the Goddamn phone. Dennis’ teeth chatter, brutal wind nearly knocking him over. His hands won’t stop shaking. He rings Mac’s house number over and over and over again.

Nothing.

Dennis rings Ms. Kelly, just to see if Mac’s hanging with Charlie. She answers, out of breath and excitement lacing her voice. She tells Dennis that Charlie’s asleep upstairs because, what the fuck, it’s almost three in the morning, and that Mac isn’t there.

When Ms. Kelly says she saw Mac a few hours ago, Dennis clenches his jaw so hard he swears he almost shatters it.

He hangs up the phone and screams at the top of his lungs.

No one’s around. No one can see him. This doesn’t represent him.

His cheeks are wet. He doesn’t. He can’t. Why why why why why why why.

Dennis hunches forward, elbows on his knees and fingers tugging at his hair. He feels everything and nothing all at once. He sobs heavily into the night. He wants to go home. He wants to rewind. He wants to go back to summer and decide to fuck college in its ass. He’s too smart for this shit anyway. Fuck, Dennis could be in his actual bed right now, memory foam mattress and cooling pillows and Fraggle Rock blanket and all, with Mac wrapped around him.

He wipes his eyes and calls his own house. For all he knows, Mac just never went home.

“It’s three in the Goddamn morning, asshole!” his dad screams as he answers; Dennis flinches and hangs up the phone. Dad doesn’t redial.

Dennis somehow finds it in himself to stand. His arms lead and feet weary, he stuffs his hands in his pockets, ignoring the stinging sensation ravaging through his broken skin, and trudges to his dorm’s parking lot. He finds his car. He unlocks the trunk, pulls out a thick flannel blanket he keeps stashed in there, and bundles himself in the backseat. He trembles and sniffles and, fucking fuck, what the fuck is wrong with Mac? Stop. Don’t think about it. He doesn’t need Mac.

He doesn’t need anybody.

Dennis shakily pulls out a joint, carefully rolled by Mac, and lights it.

He hotboxes himself into a dreamless sleep.


	11. A Sort of Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The city walls are coming down. The dust, a smoke screen all around. See faces plowed like fields that once gave no resistance. And we live by the side of the road on the side of the hill as they valley explodes, dislocated, suffocated, the land grows weary of its own." - A Sort of Homecoming | U2

**Summer 1995**

“Where’s your boy toy?”

Dee. Fucking bitch. He’ll cut her into tiny pieces.

He groans from beneath his comforter. The noise grates his head. “Go away.”

But then he hears Dee’s bird-like footsteps and squawking and her plopping down in his beanbag chair. Dennis pokes out a small hole in his blanket cave slash cocoon, just enough to squint through. Dee’s boney ass is touching his stuff. He doesn’t like it when she touches his things, and the fucking bitch knows it. She’s barefoot and only wearing a tank top and shorts. Her hair’s messy like, guess what, a bird’s nest. Dennis wants to scream, to push her the fuck out of his room, but he’s tired.

“You’ve been sulking in here all summer,” Dee says. “Go outside. Y’know, get some fresh air.”

Dennis scoffs. “Like I want to do anything with you.”

“I didn’t say with me, dickwad. I haven’t seen Mac around here lately. Drag his ass over here so you two can make out or bang or whatever.”

“Oh my God. I will fucking end you if you say another Goddamn word.”

“About your boy toy? It irritates you if I talk about your boy toy?”

Dennis shoots straight up in bed. The air conditioning slams into his bare chest. He shivers but maintains his unwavering anger. “Get out of my room.”

“Say, where is Mac? Did you two, like, breakup or something?”

He clenches his jaw. He pinches the marred flesh on his forearms. “Dee, seriously, shut up.”

Dee taps her finger on her chin. “Hmmm... You know what I think happened? I think you fucked up, just like you always do.”

“Wow. That’s very specific and enlightening.” Dennis swings his legs over the side of the bed, blinking blearily through dizziness mauling him over like a rogue wave. His vision darkens. He tries to stay strong and breathe through it, but he ends up hunched over, socked feet planted firmly on the floor and head cradled in cold, trembling hands. Fucking shit. Goddammit. He wants to be alone. He needs to be alone. Why is Dee such a Goddamn whore?

He hears Dee sigh. “When’s the last time you ate, asshole?”

Dennis shrugs. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

“Jesus Christ. You’ve lost it, haven’t you? You finally went off the deep end.”

“Dee,” Dennis says clearly, with every ounce of strength he has. “Please.”

He pictures her rolling her stupid bird eyes. Fuck does he hate her. “Fine. Have fun starving to death and being the palest moron on the planet.”

Dennis breathes out a sigh of relief when his door clicks closed. He contemplates locking it, but that means getting up, and he isn’t ready for that right now. Instead, he lies back down, curls up on his side, and picks mindlessly at the gauze covering his wrist. The silence welcomes him home. The blackout curtains greet him with darkness. He ignores the sun beaming outside and the unsettling pit in his stomach and Dee’s dumbass remarks and Mac’s absence.

It isn’t Mac’s fault, he guesses. He got a summer job at a construction site. He works five days a week and thirteen hour days. By the time he gets off, he crashes at Charlie’s instead because it’s closer. They don’t see each other on the weekends because Mac’s understandably exhausted, and Dennis doesn’t want to leave the safety of his bedroom anyway.

After two semesters plus half a summer without Mac, Dennis’ God Hole is completely and utterly empty. Smoking and drinking don’t do anything for him anymore. Fuck, even fucking up his skin brings him nothing but frustration. It used to help. It used to calm him down. He loved watching his blood pool up on his shirts or pour down the drain. Now, it’s Goddamn annoying, and he’s so fucking done with having to clean up after himself.

He only saw Mac once during the several months he was away at Penn, and that was in January, the worst fucking month to visit a buddy. Even then, Mac brought Charlie along, and Dennis kicked them out of his room around eight o’clock and sent them back to Philly. Dennis thought that moving back home for the summer would help things return to normal, but, if anything, being here – so close to and so far away from Mac – is making it worse.

Mac came over a couple nights ago after work. He greeted Dennis with a smile and a copy of Predator, body tan and buff from all of the hours working outside. Dennis wanted to be excited because he missed Mac, but he felt nothing but bubbling madness. Mac tried to talk to him; he rambled on and on about beefcakes at the construction site and how much money he was making, but Dennis didn’t really hear any of it. Instead, he heard Mac slipping away from him and wondered how long it would take before Mac just stopped coming around altogether.

They watched the movie in near silence, and it fucking tore Dennis to pieces.

Dennis rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need any of this.

He’s thirsty, and his stomach keeps gurgling. He thinks about heading downstairs to grab something small to eat. But then this pang of anxiety, of dread, of hopelessness, of pure fear courses through his veins, and he folds in on himself even more. Fuck. He can’t even get out of bed anymore. His sweatpants swallow him whole. He remembers poking two new notches in his belt the other night when Mom and Dad threw an awful party for some shit. He hasn’t left the house in three weeks. He hasn’t left his bedroom in five days.

It’s Sunday. Dennis half expects Mac to show up any minute. He gets it. Mac needs Saturday to sleep and recuperate; his job is very physical, after all. But Sunday? He should be free to come over on Sundays instead of spending every other waking moment with Charlie instead. But Charlie is Mac’s best friend. Dennis is just some guy they met a few years ago. He’s so fucking stupid. How could he think he would ever be anything more than just ‘some guy?’

Fine. Fuck Mac. Fuck Charlie. Fuck Dee. Fuck everyone.

Dennis grabs a lighter from his nightstand. It could be over so quickly. Flames would spread, and everything would be enveloped in fire. Dennis would be burned alive. He isn’t sure if it’s good or bad that he feels this way. He doesn’t actually feel it, though. Last summer, he was sure he felt something akin to happiness when he was spending all that time with Mac, but now he doesn’t even know what emotions are and why his are so fucking fucked up.

He shakes his head, trying to wash away those thoughts from his mind.

Instead of lighting his room and his entire body on fire, he opts for fingers instead. The flick of the lighter bounces off the walls. It echoes through his room. It leaps and floats and stalks and drowns out the overwhelming silence of the house combined with the repeated stabbing inside Dennis’ mind. His skull throbs, and his hands tremble, and nothing makes sense.

Nothing.

He’s nothing and no one and going nowhere, quickly, in life.

Dennis watches the flame burn the flesh on his pinky and ring fingers, but he doesn’t feel it. He sees some nasty, foreign, infected bubble pop up on what is supposed to be absolute perfection. He sees what he’ll always be.

Mac can’t stand Dennis anymore.

But that’s okay because Dennis can’t stand Dennis anymore.

He moves the lighter, swirling it in his numb fingers before etching the flame around the palm of his right hand. He moves in between his knuckles and watches. He wishes his hand would burst into a blazing, unforgiving inferno, engulfing all of Dennis Reynolds.

Dennis doesn’t know when or why or how, but suddenly he’s in the bathroom, and there’s a razor in his hand, and he’s slashing up his bare thigh, desperately pleading with whoever will listen to make it stop. Make him feel something. Make him die. Make him a normal fucking person because he isn’t sure how much longer he can handle being himself anymore.

There’s blood spilling all over the white tiled bathroom floor.

So much blood, yet Dennis doesn’t feel a Goddamn thing.

He leans his head back against the wall and stares up at the ceiling. It’s an alright ceiling, he supposes. He draws his knees to his chest. Doesn’t feel it. He wraps his arms around his shins. Doesn’t feel it.

Doesn’t feel it can’t feel doesn’t feel it can’t feel it doesn’t want to feel it anymore.

“Dennis?”

He doesn’t move.

“Dennis, bro, you here?”

His eyebrows furrow. Charlie?

What the actual fuck?

Dennis snaps back into reality, a reality filled with blood and puffy skin and electrifying panic. Shit. Fuck. The kid can’t see this. He can’t see this. He can’t see Dennis this way. Dennis tugs his discarded sweatpants back on. Fucking shit. He doesn’t have a shirt. He has gauze wrapped around both forearms and a heavy bandage covering his left side. Whatever. Charlie isn’t that smart. He doubts he’ll even mention it.

He hears Charlie call his name a few more times. Dennis opens the bathroom door and quickly shuts it so Charlie doesn’t see the mess. He clears his throat. “What’s up, bud?”

But then he sees it. Charlie’s freckled face is flushed and puffy. His eyes are red and watering and don’t even wander to the imperfections that chisel Dennis’ body. Tears stream down his cheeks. Snot pools on his upper lip. The kid’s wearing his stupid, oversized grey hoodie and khaki shorts, battered Vans and white crew socks. He looks terrible. Pathetic.

“Hey, um...” Charlie mutters. “Is, uh... Is M-Mac here?” He scratches the back of his head, as if this whole thing isn’t weird as shit.

Dennis shakes his head. “Nope. Sorry, dude.”

“Seriously? But he’s always with you when he isn’t with me or at work! It’s Sunday. Sunday is his day off. That means Mac should be here or with me, but he isn’t!”

Charlie rubs his cheeks with his baggy hoodie sleeve. It doesn’t really make a difference, though, because Charlie’s still crying.

“Is he a ghost? Did he die? Oh God. What if he died, Dennis? We should –”

Dennis cuts him off. “He isn’t dead, Charlie. Calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm down? I can’t fucking calm down, Dennis! Jesus Christ, I need to get outta here. Your skin’s all tore up, and you’re bleeding from your pants, man! You’re like a slug or some shit. I gotta get outta here. I need to leave. I gotta find Mac!”

His eyes widen. Charlie’s never exactly been a sane, collected person. He’s prone to screaming and doing the weirdest shit possible. But this isn’t Charlie. This isn’t the Charlie he knows. Charlie’s loud and crazy, sure, but he’s also fun and smiley and does his best to cheer people up, even when he gets shot down or harassed in return.

For once, Dennis thinks he can actually fucking understand Charlie because he thinks the same way. He wants Mac too. But Mac is nowhere.

“Hey,” Dennis says, keeping his voice level. “Look at me, dude.”

Charlie huffs, wheezes, tries to make eye contact with Dennis. “I don’t know where Mac is...” he whimpers.

“Mac’s fine, okay? He’s fine.”

“It... It isn’t even ‘bout that,” Charlie mumbles. He wipes his eyes again. “C-Can I sit on your b-bed please?”

Dennis nods, gesturing to it wordlessly.

“I just... Don’t make fun of me, okay?”

“I won’t,” Dennis whispers.

“I-I woke up a little while ago, y’know, from a nightmare. Usually, Mac’s there if I get nightmares. Or, like, at least I can call him, y’know? But...”

Dennis throws on his (Mac’s) hoodie and takes a careful seat beside Charlie, not too close. “I’m sorry, bro.”

Charlie shrugs. “It’s whatever, I guess. I’m, like, 19, so I should I know howta deal with this shit.”

“It’s nice to have someone there for you, Charlie. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

He knows. Mac’s his support system too. But Mac has been weird and flaky as shit. He isn’t himself, and Dennis can’t help but wonder what’s wrong or what he did or why this is happening. But he looks at Charlie’s sad, destroyed eyes and knows this isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. They need Mac, and Mac isn’t fucking here, and it hurts.

“Can we just, like, watch TV or somethin’?” Charlie asks quietly. He doesn’t even remotely sound like himself. “I really don’t w-wanna be alone right now.”

Dennis nods and turns on the TV, handing the remote to Charlie. “I’m gonna tidy up a bit, okay?”

Charlie’s eyes widen. “No. Wait. Please...”

Tears start flowing again, and Dennis winces.

“It’ll just take a sec, bro. I gotta get all this blood off of me.”

He nods, unsteady and unsure.

Dennis cleans the bathroom in record timing. He bandages his thighs and fingers and palm (he has to stop doing this to himself). He changes from black sweats to his favorite plaid pajamas pants. When he’s done, Charlie’s sitting at the foot of the bed, shoes off and staring numbly at Dexter’s Laboratory. He looks warbled, warped, exhausted. Dennis swiftly gets under his comforter, rolling onto his side so he can watch the TV too.

Eventually, Charlie pulls out some turpentine, and they huff it together, huddled on the safety of Dennis’ mattress. They share two blunts and a bowl from Dennis’ stash and break out the Fireball Dennis keeps in his closet. The world is so colorful and spinny, and that little genius boy with an annoying sister named Dee – like Dee; he giggles – grows larger on the screen until he poofs, pops out and is standing right in front of Charlie and Dennis, telling them not to be afraid anymore. That they’re safe. That maybe they’ll be okay after all.


	12. Wake Up, Dead Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm alone in this world, and a fucked up world it is too. Tell me, tell me the story, the one about eternity, and the way it's gonna be." - Wake Up Dead Man | U2

**Winter 1996**

He doesn’t go home for winter break.

It’s not like it matters, anyway. Mom and Dad don’t give a shit about him. Mac isn’t around much anymore. Charlie’s his friend, but not really.

Dee lit her roommate on fire yesterday. Despite the campus being closed, some students, like Dennis and Dee, live in their dorms or fraternities or sororities during vacation. Apparently, there was some playful banter, which Dennis ascribes himself as deeply affluent in, but that banter turned sour once his sister realized her roommate was sexing it up with Dee’s ‘boyfriend.’ Now, who this ‘boyfriend’ is he has a no idea, but Dee doused her bed with lighter fluid, struck a match, and abandoned the building as soon as the mattress caught fire.

They’re each other’s emergency contact; it makes the most sense. They don’t have a big circle or many to choose from, but, mostly, it’s just convenient. Dennis, high as shit from inhaling joint after joint, rolled out of bed, slipped into some shoes, and bolted out the door to his car, forgetting a coat or a hat or gloves. He arrived at the hospital and filled out so much fucking paperwork before he was even allowed to see Dee. He heard from a passersby that, apparently, Dee’s roommate had a few bad burns and lost all her hair. Dennis rolled his eyes once he heard that because, of course, that bitch had it coming if she was fucking around with his sister.

Dennis walked back to the psychiatric unit with a nurse, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweatpants and fingers fumbling with his keys. Dee was in Goddamn handcuffs, mascara streaming down her cheeks and foundation absolutely ruined. The doctors and nurse left them alone, but a security guard was planted firmly outside the door in case Dee tried to light him on fire too or some shit. If she did, though, he’d deserve it.

His sister had been too distraught and exhausted to speak. Dennis didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say much. He told her that she’d be okay. He told her that she’d get help here. He told her that maybe psych wards weren’t only for people like Hannibal Lecter or Michael Myers. Dennis is shit at reassuring people, and he knows this, but he tried anyway. The twin connection stronger than ever, Dennis felt her insecurity, her embarrassment, her pain, flowing through his veins.

Once, when they were seven, Dennis fell out of a tree they named Count Rootula in their backyard and broke his arm. Dee was inside watching TV, and she screamed instead of Dennis, bounding downstairs to tell Mom that something was really wrong. Dee and Mom found Dennis in a heap on the soft summer grass, right arm twisted and bruised. Dee had been rubbing her arm thoughtfully the entire time Dennis was getting his lime green cast and pain medication.

Going home without Dee doesn’t seem right. Sure, he doesn’t want to be there anyway because there’s nothing in Philly for him anymore, but Dee and Dennis usually come home together. Dennis drives because, once again, it makes sense. It’s practical. It’s unnecessary to take two Goddamn vehicles to the same exact fucking location. With Dee in the hospital and Dennis not returning to Philly, he has time to explore the finer things in life.

By that, he means smoking and drinking until he falls straight to sleep, numbed into darkness by self-hatred. His God Hole is emptier than ever. He can still feel Dee’s sadness creeping up his spine, lighting him up like a Christmas tree. He misses Mac. Even though they haven’t exactly been super close or as close as they once were since Dennis started college, Dennis wants nothing more than to hide away from the world with Mac. They’re good at that, hiding.

Dennis is in the middle of an episode of ER on a gloomy, snowy Wednesday morning when there’s a knock on his bedroom door. He got his own room in the frat house because his ‘brothers’ don’t want to share space with a ‘gay guy who chugs dick and does his makeup.’ He isn’t fucking gay, but excuse him for wanting his already beautiful face to look even better. Goddamn barbarians. Pieces of shit. They don’t know a fucking thing.

His eyebrows furrow. No one is here besides him. He has the whole house to himself.

Dennis quietly gets out of bed, tiptoeing to the peephole.

Holy fucking shit.

Dennis swings the door open, and his visitor comes charging in like a hurricane.

“I have news! I have fantastic news!” Mac exclaims excitedly.

Dennis knows he should feel happy or jovial or fucking ecstatic, but the connections with his emotions ripped apart his first semester here.

“Aren’t you gonna ask what my news is, dude?”

His voice is so loud.

Dennis doesn’t respond. Instead, he lies back down in bed, nestled in the safety of memory foam pillows and a pile of blankets. He doesn’t get up a lot or eat really anything anymore, so his legs shake furiously. He gets Charley horses every night. He returns his attention to ER, watching as Jeanie confesses her HIV status to Drs. Greene and Weaver. It’s the newest episode, just a few days old, and he certainly didn’t expect being rudely interrupted during his viewing.

“Earth to Dennis,” Mac says, sitting on the edge of the bed without invitation. Dennis keeps his expression blank. “Come on, dude. I promise it’s really awesome.”

What would be awesome is if Mac left him the fuck alone. He’s been extraordinarily good at doing that the last two years. Dennis wonders what suddenly is so different. He hasn’t even spoken to Mac on the phone since September, where Mac sheepishly called to wish Dennis happy birthday four days late. He hasn’t seen him in person twice as long. He doesn’t know what’s changed or why Mac’s here, but he tries not to care either because caring hurts more.

“Fine. I’ll just tell you then,” Mac informs, glancing over to see if he’s even paying attention. “We’re going to the Poconos for Christmas!”

Dennis doesn’t look at him.

“So, I know you’re probably mad at me and shit because I haven’t been around lately, but it’s for a good reason. I’ve been working my ass off at construction gigs, raking in that dough, and saving it up. I thought I’d surprise you with a Christmas vacation, on me of course!”

Dennis eyes him briefly, brows furrowing and stomach swimming. “Vacation?”

“Yeah, dude! Like the road trip we took before you came to this dump, except more better!”

“I liked our road trip...” Dennis mumbles.

“But this time we get to do it without stealing all your dad’s shit! He reamed you pretty good once he found out.”

Dennis nods. His mask crumbling, it’s almost as if whatever he’s pushed away from deep inside him about Mac is bubbling to the surface again. “Yeah, bro. He gave me a concussion.”

“See! But now we can go somewhere together, and I promise not to give you a concussion... Unless you come at me or some shit; then I’ll be forced to protect myself.”

Wait. No. No fucking way. Mac can’t just waltz in here and act like they’re friends or some shit again. They haven’t talked in forever. He understands how close they used to be, but Dennis is not that guy anymore. He’s marred with self-inflicted scars. He’s hardened himself to the outside world. He’s ruined what tiny amount of emotional psyche he had and once held on to tightly just for Mac. He’s nothing and no one, and he doesn’t want Mac to see it because fuck Mac.

So Dennis averts eye contact. “No thanks...”

“What? What do you mean ‘no thanks?’ It’s a free trip, man. With me!”

“Oh wow. With you? Well then sign me up.”

Mac sighs heavily. It grates Dennis’ ears. “Dennis...”

“Don’t ‘Dennis’ me, Mac. You’re the one who abandoned me.”

“I didn’t abandon you, Den! I was working, like, a fucking shit ton to do something nice for you!”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “You coulda at least called me. Five minutes every now and then woulda done a lot of good. Or what about when I moved back home during the summers? You barely visited. Fuck, even Charlie came around more than you, and that kid hates me when he’s not high outta his fucking mind. My twin sister lit her roommate on fucking fire yesterday! I called you a billion times because I felt like I was fucking losing my mind. I had to go through that alone, and you weren’t there!”

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” Mac says softly.

“Of course you fucking didn’t,” Dennis spits back. “You abandoned me.”

He wants to scream, to lash out, to throw punches, but he doesn’t have any energy. Part of the perks of destroying his emotions is that his temper was obliterated too. He doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care about classes or papers or group projects or presentations. He doesn’t care about cutting himself too deeply or the burns etched on his fingers or his own bottle of lighter fluid stashed in his bathroom, along with tons of oxy and whiskey, in case he wants to end it all.

‘You abandoned me.”

The words echo in his mind. He sounds so fucking pathetic, like some snot nosed brat whose mother left him behind at the mall. Mac isn’t his fucking keeper. But he knows he developed a fairly serious dependency on the dude while they were in high school. Now Mac doesn’t answer his phone calls or write him back or even act like he exists, and Dennis has a hard enough time believing and acknowledging he’s actually real in the first place.

Most of the time, Dennis recognizes that, even now, Mac is the only person keeping him alive.

“Den,” Mac whispers. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know it hurt you that bad. I... I wasn’t tryin’ to abandon you on purpose. You know that, right?”

Dennis sighs. Mac’s eyes are soft and brimming with tears. He’s wearing an Eagles bobble hat and his stupid navy work pants; he looks... nice. Soft. Like he’d throw away the entire universe to make Dennis happy. “Yeah,” he answers shortly because this is starting to irritate him.

“Will you at least let me make it up to you?” Mac asks. “Because, no offense, dude, but you look like you could use a vacation.”

The thought of leaving his bed is terrifying, but Dennis finds himself nodding anyway.

“Great! This is gonna be awesome, Den! Why don’t you go get dressed? I’m gonna walk to the car store and pick up my rental car while you get ready.”

Dennis tries to smile, but he doesn’t think it works.

Mac pats his blanketed leg before bounding away like a Goddamn puppy.

Dennis leaps up and sprints to the bathroom. He hangs his head in the toilet. He gags and sniffles and heaves, and nothing really comes up. Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit. Mac’s here. Mac apologized. Mac’s taking him to the fucking Poconos to be fucking nice. Dennis breathes in and out shakily, sweat dripping from his hairline and soaking into the collar of his sweater. He can’t. He can’t do this. He can’t leave. He can’t go with Mac. He can’t go anywhere.

He’ll never go anywhere.

And this... this isn’t right. Mac helps him when he’s like this.

Except Mac isn’t here and hasn’t been here and is just doing this out of pity.

Mac isn’t here.

Tears pour down his cheeks, and he chokes as he pinches the skin on his wrapped forearms. More imperfections. More more more more more. He needs help. He needs Mac. He needs to stand up, clean himself off, and go to bed. No Poconos. Bed. Mac will be back, and he’ll know what to do. He’s the only one who can help. Dennis knows this.

He knows this. He knows this.

Dennis quivers and shakes and throws up pale bile.

Fuck. Why the fuck is he so stupid? He clenches wads of his hair in his hands and screams until they turn into sobs.

He doesn’t... He doesn’t even know how long Mac’s been gone.

Dennis takes several deep, trembling breaths, trying desperately to keep a grip on his wavering, fading reality.

He’s okay.

He’s okay he’s okay he’s okay he’s okay he’s dying.

He’s dying.

“Breathe,” he hears. The voice sounds like it’s underwater. “Breathe. You gotta breathe.”

Mac.

Mac Mac Mac Mac.

Dennis clutches his chest, forming a fist around a wad of his shirt. Stop. Stop. Stop.

“Fuck. Okay. I’m gonna take you to the hospital, alright?”

Dennis’ eyes immediately widen. He closed them again within a split second and continues to blubber like a fucking baby.

Get a grip.

Relax.

Breathe.

None of those things come easily to him, though. He’s always been high-strung. When something becomes too much or too little, Dennis breaks. Shatters. Starts building up his walls higher and higher until they reach the sky.

Dennis fidgets as long fingers rub the small of his back.

“I got you, Den. I got you...” Mac says firmly.

Dennis crumbles at the use of his nickname. Sobs wrack his body. The winter air cuts into his skin.

“Shh... Shh... Shh...”

Mac wraps him up in his arms, holding him tightly and keeping him a little grounded in this universe. He smells like weed and Earth and spicy cologne and so overwhelmingly Mac. Dennis presses his nose into the crook of Mac’s neck and breathes him in. Feels Mac’s heartbeat beneath his palm. He’s so alive in there. Mac’s so alive, and Dennis is dead and dying and nothing.

“Just breathe, Den. All you gotta do is breathe. Leave everything else to me.”

He does.

It helps, even if it’s only a little bit.

Mac carries him to bed and gives him NyQuil and whiskey and a joint to help him calm down. Mac lies beside him, a buffer in between Dennis and the rest of the world. Mac holds him like he’s everything.

It makes Dennis feel safe. Secure. Protected.

Mac plants tiny kisses into his hair, massages his scalp, whispers about anything.

It’s the best Dennis has felt in years.


	13. City of Blinding Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And I miss you when you're not around. I'm getting ready to leave the ground. Oh, you look so beautiful tonight in the city of blinding lights." - City of Blinding Lights | U2

**Spring 1997**

“Dennis, do you think I’m badass?”

He glances up from one of his many psychology textbooks, eyes narrow and brows furrowed. “What?”

Mac sighs dramatically, flopping down beside Dennis on the bed and crinkling Dennis’ notecards. “Do you think I’m badass?” he asks again. “Because, like, I try to be like super awesome all the time, and I work out a bunch, but it’s like I have nothing to use my badassness on, you know?”

Dennis shakes his head. “No. I don’t know, Mac. You sound absolutely ridiculous.”

“You don’t get it, bro. You’re tiny and skinny and shit. You have literally no mass.”

“I am not tiny,” Dennis frowns. “And forgive me for not wanting to look like a giant blob.”

Mac rolls his eyes. “All I’m tryin’ to say is that I need, like, an outlet for my skills, y’know? Like Spider-Man!”

“You don’t have superpowers,” Dennis points out, returning his attention to his book. It’s the calmest he’s been in a long time, and he knows nothing has changed except Mac. He’s been staying in Dennis’ room at the frat house for months now. He still works construction jobs and waits tables three nights a week for extra cash, but he hasn’t gone back to Philly since Christmas break. Since then, Dennis’ arms and sides have cleared up because the need to slice or burn is virtually non-existent, and he’s been eating small portions regularly. Mac is like the fucking sun to Dennis; he just wants to orbit around him until he ceases to exist.

Shit. Maybe Mac does have superpowers.

Whatever. He still isn’t fucking Spider-Man.

“Spider-Man is so badass, though!” Mac whines. “I wanna be more badasser.”

“You know what’s badass? Shutting up so I can study,” Dennis says, but there’s no venom lacing his words and no anger bubbling at the surface. Yeah, he does have a presentation worth 20 percent of his final grade tomorrow, but it’s hard to focus on literally anything and everything when Mac’s lying beside him like this, still in pajamas and hair all fluffy. He loves seeing Mac so carefree and lively and fun. It makes Dennis want to be more, to do more.

Mac tugs on Dennis’ (Mac’s) hoodie sleeve. Jesus Christ, he’s such a baby. But Dennis puts the book down regardless, rolling on to his side so he can stare at Mac’s gorgeous, happy eyes. He traces his long fingers over Mac’s stubbly cheek, tapping his chin and pulling Mac’s lips closer to his own. Mac exhales, breath cinnamony and warm, soft, wet lips on Dennis’ in a heartbeat. Dennis cards his fingers through Mac’s hair, humming into his mouth.

Perfect.

Mac is so perfect.

Holy Christ is he getting gooey and mushy, but Dennis has astronomical issues with emotions. Lately, though, Mac’s been peeling his layers like an onion. Dennis won’t dare to expose himself to anyone besides Mac. He trusts Mac. He knows Mac would never hurt him because Mac is nice. Mac is smart. Mac is sweet. Mac lights up his entire universe.

If someone had told Dennis’ 14 year old self that he would feel like this, Dennis wouldn’t believe whoever it was. He’d call them fucking crazy because Dennis Reynolds doesn’t do feelings. But he met Mac at 16, and it changed everything about him. Now, they’re both 21 and legally able to drink in bars and shit, but Dennis would much rather just hang out with Mac than do anything 21 year old dudes are supposed to do at this age. He doesn’t understand why Mac has this hold over him, but, at the same time, he doesn’t care to look into it because Dennis’ world is better and safer when Mac’s around.

He relaxes against Mac’s touch, the featherlike feeling of his fingertips ghosting over his skin. Mac lazily trails kisses all over Dennis’ neck, suckling gently, and Dennis inhales sharply. Fuuuuck him. Goddammit. Dennis straddles Mac’s lap, massaging the nape of his hair. Being around Mac is like diving into the ocean, waiting for the oxygen tank to run out and send him sinking to the floor. Dennis sucks on Mac’s tongue, hands grabbing Mac’s hips and grinding the two of them together. Mac moans into Dennis’ mouth, and Dennis is alive.

He’s alive.

And it’s wonderful.

 

* * *

 

“Let’s go outside, Den...” Mac slurs roughly against Dennis’ shoulder.

Gross. Is that Mac drool on his shirt?

Yep. That’s Mac drool. Dennis knows it anywhere. He sleeps with Mac literally every single night. Mac drools. Mac snores. Mac kicks and squirms and, sometimes, hits. Dennis wakes up with bruises, but it’s only because, apparently, he bruises “like a banana or some shit.” Still, though. Sleeping with Mac is the best sleep in the universe, and Mac is always so fucking warm when he’s wrapped completely around Dennis.

“It’s dark, Mac,” Dennis points out. “And hot and humid and muggy.”

“Dennnnnniiiiiiiissss..... Please...”

“Just think about what the outdoors will do to my hair. It takes forever to look this good,” Dennis reasons.

Mac doesn’t seem to care about the several nuances and details of Dennis’ nightly routine and whines loudly, only to recoil and wince, gripping on to his head. He pulls at his hair a tiny bit, but Dennis softly swats his hand away, grabbing it gently and kissing swollen knuckles.

“Head hurts...” Mac slurs.

Dennis frowns. “You need to sleep, dude. Your head will feel better if you rest.”

Mac’s been a mess, an actual fucking mess, since earlier this afternoon. He ran a motorcycle straight into a brick wall while trying to film himself being ‘totally badass’ like some Goddamn lunatic. Dennis drove him to the hospital. The doctor announced that Mac has a moderate concussion, a badly sprained wrist, several bruises, and required 21 sutures in total.

It’s been an increasingly long, ridiculously awful April day. Dennis has lost his cool more times than he can count, but never in front of Mac. He got Mac discharged from the hospital and into his care, but, seriously, it hasn’t been easy.

Mac promptly bursts into tears.

“Please, Den.... I-I wanna go outside...”

Goddammit.

Dennis has had a concussion or two before, and it certainly didn’t turn him into a blubbering baby.

He inhales deeply. “Mac, dude, go to sleep. I’ll be right here with you the whole time.”

“Wanna see the stars...”

“I can open the window,” Dennis tries.

Mac furiously shakes his head, and Dennis calms him down, shushing him and running a careful hand through his hair. “For real outside. That’s fake outside.”

Jesus Christ.

But Mac has tears shining in his usually bright, cheery eyes, and, fuck, Dennis can’t stand it. He’s been having a much harder time resisting and saying no to Mac’s every wish, demand, or request lately. Dennis can’t help it; for once in his life, he wants someone beside himself to be happy, which is really fucking weird for him.

“Okay, Mac. Okay. We’ll go outside, but just for a little bit.”

Dennis helps Mac out of the bed and into a t-shirt and shorts, forgoing shoes because they’re just going out to the frat’s back lawn. Dennis frowns once he gets another good look at all of the bruises and scrapes and cuts riddling Mac’s tan, muscular body. He has gauze wrapped around his right shin; there are sutures near his left elbow. He must really fucking want to see the stars because Dennis isn’t even sure how he’s standing on his own.

Quickly, Dennis throws on a jacket and zips it up before escorting Mac down the hall and two flights of stairs.

They’re on the fourth to last step when Mac bends over, out of breath and dry heaving.

“Mac, let’s go back upstairs. You don’t feel well, and you need to relax.”

“Noooooo, Dennnnn.... Stars are relaxing.”

Dennis shakes his head but then shrugs, knowing there’s no way he’s going to get Mac to turn around. He leads Mac outside.

“Bright...” Mac mumbles, shielding his eyes with his uninjured hand; Dennis frowns. “Why’s it so bright?”

“It’s the city, Mac.”

“But the sun’s not even out...”

Dennis settles Mac on a patch of grass in the backyard of the frat. No one’s out here. It’s more peaceful than Dennis thought it would be. It’s damp and a little chilly, and Dennis wishes he would’ve put a jacket and shoes on Mac too, but Mac just plops on the ground, lying down and putting his arms behind his head, staring straight up at the sky.

Fuck. Dennis doesn’t want to get his jeans wet.

He contemplates just standing there, but then Mac tugs at his pant leg.

“Won’t bite,” he murmurs.

Dennis rolls his eyes. “Alright.”

He lowers himself to the ground. The second his ass touches the grass, Mac grabs his sleeve. Dennis obliges, and Mac lays his head on Dennis’ chest. He wraps an arm around Mac, letting the other one support his head.

“I don’t see any stars...”

“Me either,” Dennis says. “Guess it’s because we’re too close to the city.”

“I wanted to see them... the stars...”

Dennis frowns and kisses the top of Mac’s head. Poor dude.

“We can go to the park or something when you’re better, okay?” Dennis offers. Mac does everything to make sure Dennis gets what he wants, especially if Dennis is sick or hurt or breaking down. Mac is always there for him, to pick him up and hold him close. Dennis wants to be that for Mac too.

Mac nods. “I love you, Den...”

What?

Dennis gulps. Sweat pools on his forehead. His heart beats too fucking fast.

But he stares at Mac, whose eyes are dazed and glassy, and he isn’t ashamed of repeating it. Not now, at least.

“I love you too, Mac.” It’s soft and low and sweet and doesn’t even remotely sound like the Dennis Reynolds that the actual Dennis Reynolds remembers.

“Will you still love me when I’m old and wrinkly?”

Dennis smiles just a little bit. “I’ll always love you, dude.”

Mac giggles pretty much out of nowhere. “You won’t get wrinkles when you’re old, Den. You’re too pretty.”

Dennis wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets Mac ramble for a while. He goes on about growing old together and getting matching rocking chairs and that Dennis will definitely go bald first (not a fat fucking chance in hell). But, eventually, Mac stops talking and starts doodling with his index finger on Dennis’ chest.

The wind stirs, awakening the trees and bringing the earth back to life. Dennis listens to frogs croak and bugs buzz in the distance. He watches as Mac moves, shifting and rolling until he’s safely on his side, facing Dennis. He softly grabs Dennis’ cheeks and pulls him close. Mac’s tongue swirls in Dennis’ mouth, and Dennis’ dick hardens in his jeans, and he definitely will never mention that to Mac, and there is nothing more perfect in the universe than this moment.

“I think I saw those stars,” Dennis whispers once they pull apart.

Mac grins; Dennis melts.

“Me too.”


	14. Trip Through Your Wires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You put me back together again. I was cold, and you clothed me, honey. I was down, and you lifted me, honey. Angel... Angel or devil? I was thirsty, and you wet my lips." - Trip Through Your Wires | U2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the positive feedback! The last chapter will be up soon.

**Summer 1998**

The day after Dennis graduates with a major in veterinary science and a minor in psych, Mac helps him move into his new apartment in Philly.

It’s not overly spacious, but it has a living room and a bedroom, which is a huge bonus in Dennis’ eyes. He has enough space for a fancy, imported leather couch and maybe even a recliner. Dennis thinks recliners are for douchebags, but he and Mac went to a furniture store a couple weeks ago to scope out cool shit while stoned out of their minds, and Mac found a heated recliner. The two of them sat in it together until they were eventually kicked out for ‘loitering.’ Dennis rolled his eyes, put his hand on the small of Mac’s back, and guided him away from that vile place that absolutely does not deserve the Dennis Reynolds’ lucrative business.

Mac does most of the heavy lifting, putting his construction muscles to the test proudly, while Dennis hooks up his TV in the AC. He doesn’t do well in the heat; Mac knows this, which is why he’s moving everything else while Dennis just had to help get the bed up three flights of stairs. He smiles each time Mac comes into the apartment like he belongs here, like it’s where he’s supposed to be, and Mac grins too, arms flexed and tanned in a shirt soaked with sweat.

Dennis flips on the television, breathing out a sigh of relief that it still works after all these years. He can easily go out and buy a new, bigger one, but Mac likes this TV, and Dennis tries not to get rid of things Mac likes. Mac loves a lot of Dennis’ t-shirts, so Dennis never actually throws them out; he gives them to Mac instead. Sure, Mac cuts off the sleeves like some Goddamn savage little idiot, but Dennis likes the cheekiness of Mac’s smile, so it’s okay.

“I’m gonna die of heatstroke,” Mac whines as he enters the apartment for the hundredth time today. He drops the cardboard box haphazardly on the scattered, messy floor and sprawls out beside it.

Dennis rolls his eyes. “You’re fine, dude,” he says. “And quit getting your nasty sweat all over my brand new hardwood floor.”

“My sweat is precious, Dennis. You should be lucky it’s on your stupid hardwood floor.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dennis points out.

Mac stares at him, a grin quickening in the corners of his lips. “Your mom doesn’t make any sense.”

Dennis can’t help but chuckle because Mac’s ridiculous in the best ways possible. He drops the remote and pats the deluxe air mattress. “Come here.”

“Ew. No. I’m all gross and sweaty, dude. At least let me shower first.”

Dennis shakes his head. “You look great, Mac. Just come here.”

Mac does as he’s told. “Fine. But don’t complain if my sweat gets on you and your pussy ass skin.”

“Pussy ass skin?” Dennis repeats. “You’re on a roll today, man.”

“I try,” Mac mumbles as he plops unceremoniously onto the mattress. He kicks his shoes and socks off, exhaling loudly and folding his hands behind his head. Dennis watches the rise and fall of Mac’s chest, mesmerized and fixated. Mac is stunningly perfect, and, at this point, Dennis doesn’t really have a problem admitting it because it’s so true, and he’s getting tired of lying to himself literally 24/7. “You should get, like, a dog or some shit, bro...” He sounds half-asleep.

“I’m not much of a dog guy, and you know that.”

“I know, Den. But dogs are sweet. Remember Poppins? He’s the best...”

“Yeah, I do remember your trash dog with the socket popping eyeball and scabies,” Dennis says.

Mac rolls on to his side, curling up against Dennis and placing his greasy hands on Dennis’ chest; Dennis breathes in so sharply he almost passes out. “Poppins isn’t a ‘trash dog.’ He’s a great dog.”

“But the eyeball?”

Mac giggles. “Yeah, the eyeball thing’s pretty gross, but I love him more better that way. It’s how God made him.”

Dennis kisses Mac’s knuckles, not minding the salty taste because this is Mac, and Mac is everything. “I could get a cat,” he whispers.

“Cats are weird as shit, dude. They, like, don’t listen to anybody.”

“That’s part of what makes them awesome,” Dennis reasons.

Dennis had a cat once. He found her wandering around outside at the end of their monstrous driveway when he was 8 years old. He named her Juno, and she was this sassy, soft grey tabby with the greenest eyes Dennis has ever seen. She used to follow him everywhere. She died when he was 14, right before the whole Ms. Klinsky thing. It tore him apart; it’s one of the first times Dennis can actually remember feeling his emotions. Ever since Juno, Dennis has wanted another cat, but his parents and then school wouldn’t allow it. He loves cats; he understands them.

“I can help you find a cat,” Mac says, “if you really want one.”

“I’m not getting a trash cat, Mac.”

“No, dumbass. We can, like, go to a shelter or somethin’. Make it official. Save a life.”

“Yeah,” Dennis whispers, smiling sweetly at Mac, whose bloodshot eyes are drooping closed. Dennis cards his fingers through sweat dampened hair, and Mac throws a possessive, heavy arm across Dennis’ waist, tugging him closer until they’re flushed together. Mac hides his face in Dennis’ t-shirt, snoring loudly once sleep pulls him under.

He thinks he may be in love.

Wait.

No.

He doesn’t mean that.

Or at least he doesn’t think he means it.

It’s weird. He’s weird. This is weird. Ever since Mac came into his life, Dennis has honestly been, for the most part, content and happy. He only really gets bad again if Mac leaves him alone for too long. He knows it isn’t healthy to be so fucking dependent on someone else, but Mac lights up his universe in ways Dennis can’t fathom. So, yeah, he think he may be in love.

With Mac.

But he isn’t going to tell him that. Mac’s okay with touching and kissing, but he clams up and gets super defensive if anyone, including Dennis, assumes he’s gay.

Dennis doesn’t care whether Mac’s gay, straight, bisexual, attracted to fish... He just wants both of them to be happy.

So Dennis settles on planting tiny kisses on Mac’s forehead.

“Do you wanna move in with me?” he whispers.

He doesn’t expect a response; he thinks Mac’s fast asleep.

But Mac’s groggy eyes pop open, and he grins widely. It makes Dennis melt. “Of course, Den. Of course.”

Obviously, Mac finishes moving into the new apartment the same day Dennis asks because he doesn’t have shit for belongings. He hangs his clothes in their closet, puts his toothbrush and hair product beside Dennis’, he places his protein powder on the coffee table. Dennis can’t help but smile as Mac proudly surveys their new kingdom, a palace where they can just hang out together and be themselves. Dennis is only himself when he’s around Mac.

That night, Mac makes spaghetti for dinner while Dennis kisses him against their new kitchen counter.

 

* * *

 

Shades of blue encompass their relationship.

Blue can mean a lot of things. For instance, it can metaphorically define a person as sad, an emotion Dennis has a hard time understanding sometimes. Blue is the color of the sky and of the ocean, and blue is what looks best on Mac. Dennis has told Mac that blue is his color, but Mac never listens to ‘shit like that.’ He’s much more interested in playing video games and kissing Dennis, sprawled out on their Italian couch, completely and totally relaxed.

Mac just keeps wearing ratty, sleeveless t-shirts. It’s minorly disturbing, honestly.

Dennis wears a lot of blue because it brings out his eyes. Mac calls them his ‘baby blues,’ a term Dennis both loves and adores. He should get positive attention for looking great daily; he spends so much time primping and preparing that it might as well be a solid, set in stone, hardcore fact. Dennis owns tons of blue button ups in every shade under the sun. He works blue jeans fantastically; it’s really not hard to with a perfect ass like his.

Blue is everywhere. It just is.

Today is no exception.

Dennis is wearing a sky blue button up and dark washed jeans. Even his boxer briefs are pinstripe blue; his socks are also navy blue. He’s sipping on a beer, feet on the coffee table and not giving a single fuck about Charlie and Dee squabbling over by the dartboard while he watches TV and smokes a joint tastefully rolled by Mac.

“Mac’s in the house!”

Dennis almost smiles but doesn’t. Charlie cheers like a fucking lunatic.

Jesus Christ.

Dennis is about to return his attention to Saturday afternoon trash TV when something stops him.

Mac’s wearing a dark blue t-shirt. It isn’t sleeveless.

Sure, okay, sometimes Mac wears blue. He wears stupid navy blue cargo pants almost every-fucking-day, which isn’t lost on Dennis. But the coordination of his outfits is atrocious when it’s always paired with wrinkly, stained, holey sleeveless shirts.

Oh holy fuck.

It’s a polo.

Mac is actually wearing a fucking polo.

Dennis has never seen this particular shirt before, so he knows it isn’t his. There isn’t that ‘little lacrosse guy’ on the lapel, which means it’s probably some knock off brand, but Dennis doesn’t care. In fact, Dennis bites his bottom lip and tries to ignore the fact that his jeans are becoming uncomfortably tight.

“Hey, Den!” Mac says happily, plopping down beside him. Their shoulders touch, just like they always seem to be because they both have no idea what personal space is.

Dennis wastes no time getting to the bottom of this. “Why’re you wearing that?”

Mac glances down at his shirt, shrugs, and then smiles. “I dunno. It’s kinda nice, right?”

“You got a date or something?”

“No, dude. I just saw it at the hamburger store and decided to snatch this bad boy up.”

Dennis’ eyebrows furrow. “You found a polo at Burger King?”

“Yeah, bro! There’s so much cool shit at the hamburger store!”

“Well, that isn’t weird at all.”

Dennis returns to channel surfing, even though he’s turned on and still interested in Mac’s motives, but Dee and Charlie are here, so it’s not like he can just pounce Mac and tell him how ridiculously hot he looks. Dennis swallows harshly, scratching his cheek and running a hand through his hair before smoothing it back down.

Mac eventually gets up, obviously bored from not talking. He and Charlie start to goof around, throwing darts at the board and each other. Dennis practically inhales another joint.

“Dude, what the fuck?!”

“Holy shit! Holy shit! You’re bleeding!”

Dennis’ heart thumps loudly in his chest. He grimaces at the dart sticking out of Mac’s skin near his left elbow and immediately gets to his feet. Charlie’s not kidding. Mac really is bleeding, especially when he pulls the dart from his flesh. Crimson trails down his arm, and Mac keeps cussing when some of it trickles accidentally on to his new blue shirt.

“C’mere, dude,” Dennis coaxes, leading Mac into their bedroom – don’t tell Dee and Charlie that – without another word. Dennis settles him on the bed.

“I’m okay, dude,” Mac tells him.

Dennis grabs the first aid kit stored in the bathroom and nods sheepishly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah yeah. I know. Don’t want that to get infected, though, do we? Who knows where that dart’s been?”

“Gross,” Mac mumbles.

Dennis quickly, but effectively and diligently, cleans the wound, applying Neosporin before covering it with a TMNT Band-Aid. “There you go,” he says as he throws the mess in the trashcan.

“My shirt’s ruined, Den,” Mac pouts.

Dennis shrugs. “We’ll get you another stupid polo.”

“But this one looks great on me!”

“Yeah, it really does.”

“Wait,” Mac says. “You really think so?”

Dennis nods. “Yeah. I’ve told you a billion times that blue looks good on you.”

Mac grins like a kid who just opened up the best Christmas gift in the world. The dude’s a puppy. Dennis isn’t a fan of dogs, but he likes Mac a lot, especially when he’s wearing a kind of bloody blue polo and staring at him like that.

“I’ll help you pick out a new blue shirt,” Dennis offers. “But it’ll come from a JC Penney or some shit, not Burger King.”

Mac gets to his feet, shuffling them awkwardly before wrapping his strong, warm arms around Dennis. He kisses Dennis’ lips sweetly, tenderly, passionately. Dennis shivers and moans into his mouth. He pushes Mac back down onto the mattress, starting to lift the blue polo off his chest. Dennis bites his inner cheek and murmurs under his breath when he hears screaming coming from the living room, followed by glass shattering.

“Fuck,” Mac whispers. “We’ll finish this later, okay?”

Dennis nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mac’s hand is on the doorknob when he turns around briefly. “Thanks, Den,” he says softly. “I love you.”

Dennis’ heart swells three times too big in his chest. His palms sweat. His brain races. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth.

But he smiles. It’s the biggest smile Dennis has ever smiled.

“I love you too, Mac.”


	15. You're The Best Thing About Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When the world is ours, but the world is not your kind of thing, full of shooting stars, brighter as they're vanishing. Oh, you've seen enough to know it's children who teach. You're still free enough to wake up on a bed or a beach." - You're The Best Thing About Me | U2

**Fall 2018**

It’s weird. So fucking weird.

Even though this has been his life for two years now, it’s still hard to wrap his head around.

He never imagined he’d be a family man, to have people he’s responsible for and loves dearly. He never envisioned waking up to sloppy toddler kisses and showering daily with the light of his life – the center of his universe. But Dennis has Mac and Brian, the best husband and son in the history of the galaxy.

Fuck. Is he getting mushy and shit again? This has gone on long enough. They’re in public, for Christ’s sake.

It’s not his fault, though. Not really at least. It isn’t his fault his son is turning three on Monday. It isn’t his fault they’re having his birthday party at Brian’s favorite park in South Philadelphia, filled with candy and games and sketchy bouncy houses. It’s not his fault Mac’s wearing that moronic blue and white Hawaiian shirt, the one that absolutely brings out his puppy dog eyes and tanned, muscular arms. It also isn’t his fault that Mac’s grilling burgers and hotdogs, and Brian is in his free arm, poking Mac’s cheek; Mac blows a raspberry on Brian’s cheek in return, and the little boy – their son – laughs vibrantly. It’s enough to make tears swell in Dennis’ eyes behind his sunglasses.

Fuck. He's totally a dead man.

These two will be the death of Dennis Reynolds.

Before them, Dennis lived a life of solitude, a fortress with devastatingly high walls and feisty alligators surrounding his brain fluids. Before them, Dennis is beyond positive he would’ve done something awful to himself by now. Before them, Dennis drank way too much, barely ate anything, ripped his skin from his bones, and decisively, strategically, disowned the idea, the very notion, that there was anything wrong with him or his lifestyle.

Before them, Dennis was lost.

Now, a few years after meeting his son (fathered by Dennis in a drunken, hazy memory with Brian’s mom) and admitting he’s been head over heels in love with Mac since they were 16, he thinks he’s found himself. Sure, he still gets pissed off like any other reasonable human being, but he’s in therapy and on meds for the BPD and depression and issues with anxiety. He tries not to involve himself in as many schemes with the gang. The last one was a full year ago when he and Mac tried to scam an animal shelter, but that was only because Brian wanted a pet. Dennis may or may not still feel guilty about it, but, hey, they have an awesome black cat named Ninja Bean, and it’s amazing to watch Brian play with her.

Now, Dennis is a married man. He and Mac tied the knot last October. It was a tiny ceremony because their circle is small as shit because they’re still assholes, but they honeymooned in Hawaii, letting the sand squish in between their toes and the daily sunset take control of them, even if only for a week. Being married is great, though. He was basically already married to Mac in the first place, but making it official made them both cry for an embarrassingly long amount of time.

Dennis didn’t fake his emotions or try to deny them. There was no onion in sight, just a bunch of love and laughter and life filling up the usually darkened Paddy’s Pub.

“Den!” Brian shrieks, running over to Dennis and snapping him out of his thoughts; Brian calls him ‘Den’ because he’s heard Mac call him that a billion times. “I founds a pet rock for Ninja Bean!”

Dennis lifts the almost three year old boy with his light curls and bright baby blue eyes into his arms, planting a gentle kiss in soft hair. The rock in his palm and is small and black and looks like it could be Ninja Bean if Ninja Bean were a rock instead of a cat.

“That’s awesome, bud. I’m sure she’ll love it,” Dennis says. He can’t help but hold Brian close. Christ, how is this kid almost three? He remembers when Brian was one; he was a small, tiny thing when Dennis held him for the first time. Now, the boy who used to only wear a green Paddy’s Pub t-shirt every single day because it’s his favorite color is adorned in nice, clean jeans and a grey and red flannel to combat against the early October air. Now, the boy who used to suck his thumb and sleep on Dennis or Mac’s chest every night is starting preschool next year.

Shit. He’s getting old.

“Den?” Brian asks, his arms wrapped around Dennis’ neck.

Dennis rubs his back. “Yeah, Bri?”

“Daddy’s burnin’ the hotdogs.”

Dennis chuckles and lowers Brian to the ground. The second his boot covered feet hit the grass, Brian takes off running, darting over to Charlie, who is about two seconds away from breaking his arm or some shit; the dude’s garbage at sliding. But Charlie and Dee are good to Brian and treat him right, and that’s what really matters. Charlie stops doing… whatever he’s doing and heads over to the swings with Brian, pushing the boy happily. Brian can’t stop giggling, and it makes Dennis’ heart blossom in his chest.

“I’m great at many things, Dennis,” Mac starts. “You’ve seen how great I am at things. But, honestly, I think I have to admit defeat here. I suck at grilling.”

“Yeah, no shit, babe. Those hunks of black don’t look appetizing. Why don’t we order some pizzas instead? I think everyone’s getting hungry.”

Mac nods and smiles. “That sounds reasonable. But remember this is a one time occurrence.”

Dennis holds up his hands innocently. “I get it, Mac. You’re amazing.”

“Why thank you, Dennis. Would you like to accompany me to the Rover so I can get my phone?”

Dennis grins and takes Mac’s hand. “Why’re you talking like that?”

Mac shrugs. “Dunno. This day is weirding me out, Den. I mean, like, we have a three year old. Three is, like, almost four. We have an almost four year old!”

“He isn’t even three until Monday,” Dennis points out. “We can still enjoy Bri being two for a couple more days.”

Mac nods, and Dennis rubs his thumb over his knuckles. Mac fishes his cell phone from the depths of the Rover’s bowels, orders three large pizzas, and returns his attention to Dennis. His Hawaiian shirt has a small charcoal stain near the collar, and his fluffy hair flops in the chilly breeze as he leans against the amphibious exploring vehicle. He looks great. He always looks great.

Dennis takes this opportunity to kiss Mac’s soft, pink lips.

“I love you, Mac,” Dennis whispers, and, suddenly he’s transported back to 1992. He’s 16 and smoking weed with Mac and Charlie – Ronnie the Rat and Dirt Grub – for the first time. He’s 17 and falling asleep on Mac’s chest, hiding away from the world. He’s 18 and lighting his skin on fire and carving himself to death, but Mac’s there, steady hands and voice guiding him from any and all harm. He’s 19 and scared shitless because he feels too much, and all of his feelings are for Mac, about Mac. He’s 20, and Mac offers to take him to the Poconos for Christmas. He’s 21, and Mac lives with him in his frat, ordering him takeout and making flashcards for Dennis’ veterinary science credits. He’s 22 and graduating from college and moving in with Mac officially, and this – their life – is the best thing that’s ever happened.

“I love you, Mac,” Dennis whispers. “You and Brian are my whole world.”

His husband blushes and smiles and kisses Dennis back. “I love you too, Den.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it for now, peeps. Thank you so much for the feedback and for reading! You guys rock. :)
> 
> Feel free to follow me on Tumblr: @glennjaminhow.


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